THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 


Marion  K.  Morrow 


BY  MYRTLE  REED. 


FLOWER  OF  THE  DUSK. 
LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  LITERARY  MEN. 
A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 
LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 
LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 
THE  SPINSTER  BOOK. 
LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 
THE  MASTER'S  VIOLIN. 
•AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JACK-O'-LANTERN. 
THE  SHADOW  OF  VICTORY. 
THE  BOOK  OF  CLEVER  BEASTS. 
PICKABACK  SONGS. 


FLOWER  OP  THE 
DUSK 

BY  MYRTLE  REED 

m 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  Yorft  and  London 
ZTbe  imfcfcerbocfeer  press 

1908 

COPYRIGHT,  1908 

BY 
MYRTLE  REED  McCULLOUGH 


Ubc  ftntcfterbochcr  tprese,  t\cve 


iii 

Contents 

CHAPTER 

PAOE 

I  —  A  MAKER  OF  SONGS 

I 

Contents 

II—  Miss  MATTIE  . 

15 

Ill—  THE  TOWER  OF  COLOGNE 

.             28 

IV  —  THE  SEVENTH  OF  JUNE    . 

.             42 

V  —  ELOISE  .... 

-       55 

VI—  A  LETTER       . 

.       68 

VII  —  AN  AFTERNOON  CALL 

.       83 

VIII  —  A  FAIRY  GODMOTHER 

.       98 

IX  —  TAKING  THE  CHANCE 

1  1  1 

X  —  IN  THE  GARDEN 

.     126 

XI  —  BARBARA'S  "TO-MORROW" 

.     142 

XII  —  MIRIAM 

•     155 

XIII  —  "WOMAN  SUFFRAGE" 

.     169 

XIV  —  BARBARA'S  BIRTHDAY 

.     181 

XV  —  THE  SONG  OF  THE  PINES  . 

.     194 

XVI—  BETRAYAL      . 

.     209 

HI 


372 


IV 


Contents 


XVII— "NEVER  AGAIN"  .  225 

XVIII— THE  PASSING  OF  FIDO      .  .  238 

XIX— THE  DREAMS  COME  TRUE  .  253 

XX — PARDON          ....  273 

XXI— THE  PERILS  OF  THE  CITY.  .  286 

XXII — AUTUMN  LEAVES     .         .  .  299 

XXIII — LETTERS  TO  CONSTANCE  .  .313 

XXIV— THE  BELLS  IN  THE  TOWER  .  327 


Jflower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


a  flfeafeer  of  Songs 

"  PHE  pines,  darkly  purple,  towered  against 
1  the  sunset.  Behind  the  hills,  the  splen 
did  tapestry  glowed  and  flamed,  sending  far 
messages  of  light  to  the  grey  East,  where  lay 
the  sea,  crooning  itself  to  sleep.  Bare  boughs 
dripped  rain  upon  the  sodden  earth,  where  the 
dead  leaves  had  so  long  been  hidden  by  the 
snow.  The  thousand  sounds  and  scents  of 
Spring  at  last  had  waked  the  world. 

The  man  who  stood  near  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  quite  alone,  and  carefully  feeling  the 
ground  before  him  with  his  cane,  had  chosen 
to  face  the  valley  and  dream  of  the  glory  that, 
perchance,  trailed  down  in  living  light  from 
some  vast  loom  of  God's.  His  massive  head 
was  thrown  back,  as  though  he  listened,  with  a 
secret  sense,  for  music  denied  to  those  who  see. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stray  gleams  came 
through  the  deepening  shadows  to  rest,  like 
an  aureole,  upon  his  silvered  hair.  Remem 
bered  sunsets,  from  beyond  the  darkness  of 
more  than  twenty  years,  came  back  to  him 


Sunset 


f  lower  of  tbe  Duel? 


flftemortee 


with  divine  beauty  and  diviner  joy.  Mnemos 
yne,  that  guardian  angel  of  the  soul,  brought 
from  her  treasure-house  gifts  of  laughter 
and  tears;  the  laughter  sweet  with  singing, 
and  the  bitterness  of  the  tears  eternally  lost 
in  the  Water  of  Forgetfulness. 

Slowly,  the  light  died.  Dusk  came  upon 
the  valley  and  crept  softly  to  the  hills.  Mist 
drifted  in  from  the  sleeping  sea,  and  the  hush 
of  night  brooded  over  the  river  as  it  mur 
mured  through  the  plain.  A  single  star 
uplifted  its  exquisite  lamp  against  the  after 
glow,  near  the  veiled  ivory  of  the  crescent 
moon. 

Sighing,  the  man  turned  away.  "  Perhaps," 
he  thought,  whimsically,  as  he  went  cautiously 
down  the  path,  searching  out  every  step  of  the 
way,  "there  was  no  sunset  at  all." 

The  road  was  clear  until  he  came  to  a  fallen 
tree,  over  which  he  stepped  easily.  The  new 
softness  of  the  soil  had,  for  him,  its  own  deep 
meaning  of  resurrection.  He  felt  it  in  the 
swelling  buds  of  the  branches  that  sometimes 
swayed  before  him,  and  found  it  in  the  scent 
of  the  cedar  as  he  crushed  a  bit  of  it  in  his 
hand. 

Easily,  yet  carefully,  he  went  around  the 
base  of  the  hill  to  the  street,  where  his  house 
was  the  first  upon  the  right-hand  side.  The 
gate  creaked  on  its  hinges  and  he  went  quickly 
up  the  walk,  passing  the  grey  tangle  of  last 


H  dDafter  of  5on06 


Summer's  garden,  where  the  marigolds  had 
died  and  the  larkspur  fallen  asleep. 

Within  the  house,  two  women  awaited  him, 
one  with  anxious  eagerness,  the  other  with 
tenderly  watchful  love.  The  older  one,  who 
had  long  been  listening,  opened  the  door  be 
fore  he  knocked,  but  it  was  Barbara  who 
spoke  to  him  first. 

"  You  're  late,  Father,  dear." 

"Am  I,  Barbara?  Tell  me,  was  there  a 
sunset  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  glorious  one." 

"I  thought  so,  and  that  accounts  for  my 
being  late.  I  saw  a  beautiful  sunset — I  saw 
it  with  my  soul." 

"Give  me  your  coat,  Ambrose."  The  older 
woman  stood  at  his  side,  longing  to  do  him 
some  small  service. 

"Thank  you,  Miriam;  you  are  always  kind." 

The  tiny  living-room  was  filled  with  relics 
of  past  luxury.  Fine  pictures,  in  tarnished 
frames,  hung  on  the  dingy  walls,  and  worn 
rugs  covered  the  floor.  The  furniture  was 
old  mahogany,  beautifully  cared  for,  but  de 
crepit,  nevertheless,  and  the  ancient  square 
piano,  outwardly,  at  least,  showed  every  year 
of  its  age. 

Still,  the  room  had  "atmosphere,"  of  the 
indefinable  quality  that  some  people  impart  to 
a  dwelling-place.  Entering,  one  felt  refinement, 
daintiness,  and  the  ability  to  live  above  mere 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfc 


B  Com* 
totting 

Deceit 


externals.  Barbara  had,  very  strongly,  the 
house-love  which  belongs  to  some  rare  women. 
And  who  shall  say  that  inanimate  things  do  not 
answer  to  our  love  of  them,  and  diffuse,  be 
tween  our  four  walls,  a  certain  gracious  spirit 
of  kindliness  and  welcome? 

In  the  dining-room,  where  the  table  was 
set  for  supper,  there  were  marked  contrasts. 
A  coarse  cloth  covered  the  table,  but  at  the 
head  of  it  was  overlaid  a  remnant  of  heavy 
table-damask,  the  worn  places  carefully  hidden. 
The  china  at  this  place  was  thin  and  fine,  the 
silver  was  solid,  and  the  cup  from  which 
Ambrose  North  drank  was  Satsuma. 

On  the  coarse  cloth  were  the  heavy,  cheap 
dishes  and  the  discouraging  knives  and  forks 
which  were  the  portion  of  the  others. 
The  five  damask  napkins  remaining  from 
the  original  stock  of  linen  were  used  only 
by  the  blind  man. 

For  years  the  two  women  had  carried  on 
this  comforting  deceit,  and  the  daily  lie  they 
lived,  so  lovingly,  had  become  a  sort  of 
second  nature.  They  had  learned  to  speak, 
casually,  of  the  difficulty  in  procuring  servants, 
and  to  say  how  much  easier  it  was  to  do  their 
own  small  tasks  than  to  watch  continually 
over  fine  linen  and  rare  china  instrusted  to  in 
competent  hands.  They  talked  of  tapestries, 
laces,  and  jewels  which  had  long  ago  been  sold, 
and  Barbara  frequently  wore  a  string  of  beads 


H  flDafeer  of  Songs 


which,  with  a  lump  in  her  throat,  she  called 
"Mother's  pearls." 

Discovering  that  the  sound  of  her  crutches 
on  the  floor  distressed  him  greatly,  Barbara 
had  padded  the  sharp  ends  with  flannel  and 
was  careful  to  move  about  as  little  as 
possible  when  he  was  in  the  house.  She  had 
gone,  mouse-like,  to  her  own  particular  chair 
while  Miriam  was  hanging  up  his  coat  and  hat 
and  placing  his  easy  chair  near  the  open  fire. 
He  sat  down  and  held  his  slender  hands  close 
to  the  grateful  warmth. 

"It  isn't  cold/'  he  said,  "and  yet  I  am 
glad  of  the  fire.  To-day  is  the  first  day  of 
Spring." 

"By  the  almanac?"  laughed  Barbara. 

"No,  according  to  the  almanac,  I  believe, 
it  has  been  Spring  for  ten  days.  Nature 
does  not  move  according  to  man's  laws,  but 
she  forces  him  to  observe  hers — except  in 
almanacs." 

The  firelight  made  kindly  shadows  in  the 
room,  softening  the  unloveliness  and  lending 
such  beauty  as  it  might.  It  gave  to  Ambrose 
North's  fine,  strong  face  the  delicacy  and 
dignity  of  an  old  miniature.  It  transfigured 
Barbara's  yellow  hair  into  a  crown  of  gold, 
and  put  a  new  gentleness  into  Miriam's  lined 
face  as  she  sat  in  the  half-light,  one  of  them 
in  blood,  yet  singularly  alien  and  apart. 

"What    are    you    doing,    Barbara?"     The 


Sbabows 


ot  tbe  2>u0fe 


Bt  tbe  top 
of  tbe 


sensitive  hands  strayed  to  her  lap  and  lifted 
the  sheer  bit  of  linen  upon  which  she  was 
working. 

"Making  lingerie  by  hand/' 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  it,  haven't 
you?" 

"Not  as  much  as  you  think,  perhaps.  It 
takes  a  long  time  to  do  it  well." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  are  always  sewing." 

"Girls  are  very  vain  these  days,  Father. 
We  need  a  great  many  pretty  things." 

"  Your  dear  mother  used  to  sew  a  great  deal. 
She — "  His  voice  broke,  for  even  after  many 
years  his  grief  was  keenly  alive. 

"Is  supper  ready,  Aunt  Miriam?"  asked 
Barbara,  quickly. 

"  Yes." 

"Then  come,  let 's  go  in." 

Ambrose  North  took  his  place  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  which,  purposely,  was  nearest 
the  door.  Barbara  and  Miriam  sat  together, 
at  the  other  end. 

"Where  were  you  to-day,  Father?" 

"On  the  summit  of  the  highest  hill,  almost 
at  the  top  of  the  world.  I  think  I  heard  a 
robin,  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  smelled  Spring 
in  the  maple  branches  and  the  cedar,  and 
felt  it  in  the  salt  mist  that  blew  up  from 
the  sea.  The  Winter  has  been  so  long!  " 

"Did  you  make  a  song?" 

"  Yes — two.     I  '11  tell  you  about  them  after- 


H  flDafter  of  Songs 


ward.  Always  make  a  song,  Barbara,  no 
matter  what  comes." 

So  the  two  talked,  while  the  other  woman 
watched  them  furtively.  Her  face  was  that  of 
one  who  has  lived  much  in  a  short  space  of 
time  and  her  dark,  burning  eyes  betrayed 
tragic  depths  of  feeling.  Her  black  hair, 
slightly  tinged  with  grey,  was  brushed  straight 
back  from  her  wrinkled  forehead.  Her  shoul 
ders  were  stooped  and  her  hands  rough  from 
hard  work. 

She  was  the  older  sister  of  Ambrose  North's 
dead  wife — the  woman  he  had  so  devotedly 
loved.  Ever  since  her  sister's  death,  she  had 
lived  with  them,  taking  care  of  little  lame 
Barbara,  now  grown  into  beautiful  womanhood, 
except  for  the  crutches.  After  his  blindness, 
Ambrose  North  had  lost  his  wife,  and  then, 
by  slow  degrees,  his  fortune.  Mercifully,  a 
long  illness  had  made  him  forget  a  great  deal. 

"Never  mind,  Barbara,"  said  Miriam,  in  a 
low  tone,  as  they  rose  from  the  table.  "It 
will  make  your  hands  too  rough  for  the 
sewing." 

"Shan't  I  wipe  the  dishes  for  you,  Aunty? 
I'd  just  as  soon.  " 

"No — go  with  him." 

The  fire  had  gone  down,  but  the  room  was 
warm,  so  Barbara  turned  up  the  light  and 
began  again  on  her  endless  stitching.  Her 
father's  hands  sought  hers. 


/lower  ot  tbe  2>usfe 


Song  of 
the  IRfver 


"More  sewing  ?"  His  voice  was  tender  and 
appealing. 

"Just  a  little  bit,  Father,  please.  I  'm  so 
anxious  to  get  this  done." 

"But  why,  dear?" 

"Because  girls  are  so  vain,"  she  answered, 
with  a  laugh. 

"Is  my  little  girl  vain?" 

"Awfully.  Hasn't  she  the  dearest  father 
in  the  world  and  the  prettiest" — she  swal 
lowed  hard  here — "  the  prettiest  house  and  the 
loveliest  clothes?  Who  would  n't  be  vain!" 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  the  old  man,  con 
tentedly,  "that  I  have  been  able  to  give  you 
the  things  you  want.  I  could  not  bear  it  if 
we  were  poor." 

"  You  told  me  you  had  made  two  songs  to 
day,  Father." 

He  drew  closer  to  her  and  laid  one  hand 
upon  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Quietly,  she 
moved  her  crutches  beyond  his  reach.  "One 
is  about  the  river,"  he  began. 

"  In  Winter,  a  cruel  fairy  put  it  to  sleep  in 
an  enchanted  tower,  far  up  in  the  mountains, 
and  walled  up  the  door  with  crystal.  All  the 
while  the  river  was  asleep,  it  was  dreaming 
of  the  green  fields  and  the  soft,  fragrant  winds. 

"It  tossed  and  murmured  in  its  sleep,  and 
at  last  it  woke,  too  soon,  for  the  cruel  fairy's 
spell  could  not  have  lasted  much  longer. 
When  it  found  the  door  barred,  it  was  very 


H  flDafeer  of  Songs 


sad.  Then  it  grew  rebellious  and  hurled 
itself  against  the  door,  trying  to  escape,  but 
the  barrier  only  seemed  more  unyielding.  So, 
making  the  best  of  things,  the  river  began  to 
sing  about  the  dream. 

"  From  its  prison-house,  it  sang  of  the  green 
fields  and  fragrant  winds,  the  blue  violets 
that  starred  the  meadow,  the  strange,  singing 
harps  of  the  marsh  grasses,  and  the  wonder 
of  the  sea.  A  good  fairy  happened  to  be 
passing,  and  she  stopped  to  hear  the  song. 
She  became  so  interested  that  she  wanted  to 
see  the  singer,  so  she  opened  the  door.  The 
river  laughed  and  ran  out,  still  singing,  and 
carrying  the  door  along.  It  never  stopped 
until  it  had  taken  every  bit  of  the  broken 
crystal  far  out  to  sea." 

"  I  made  one,  too,  Father." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Mine  is  about  the  linen.  Once  there  was  a 
little  seed  put  away  into  the  darkness  and  cov 
ered  deep  with  earth.  But  there  was  a  soul  in 
the  seed,  and  after  the  darkness  grew  warm 
it  began  to  climb  up  and  up,  until  one  day  it 
reached  the  sunshine.  After  that,  it  was  so 
glad  that  it  tossed  out  tiny,  green  branches  and 
finally  its  soul  blossomed  into  a  blue  flower. 
Then  a  princess  passed,  and  her  hair  was  flaxen 
and  her  eyes  were  the  colour  of  the  flower. 

"The  flower  said,  'Oh,  pretty  Princess,  I 
want  to  go  with  you/ 


Song  of 
tbe  flat 


io  flower  ot  tbe  Busfe 

Barbara  "The  princess  answered,  'You  would  die, 
little  Flower,  if  you  were  picked/  and  she 
went  on. 

"But  one  day  the  Reaper  passed  and  the 
little  blue  flower  and  all  its  fellows  were  gath 
ered.  After  a  terrible  time  of  darkness  and 
pain,  the  flower  found  itself  in  a  web  of  sheerest 
linen.  There  was  much  cutting  and  more 
pain,  and  thousands  of  pricking  stitches,  then 
a  beautiful  gown  was  made,  all  embroidered 
with  the  flax  in  palest  blue  and  green.  And 
it  was  the  wedding  gown  of  the  pretty  princess, 
because  her  hair  was  flaxen  and  her  eyes  the 
colour  of  the  flower." 

"What  colour  is  your  hair,  Barbara?"  He 
had  asked  the  question  many  times. 

"The  colour  of  ripe  corn,  Daddy.  Don't 
you  remember  my  telling  you?" 

He  leaned  forward  to  stroke  the  shining 
braids.  "And  your  eyes?" 

"Like  the  larkspur  that  grows  in  the 
garden." 

"  I  know — your  dear  mother's  eyes."  He 
touched  her  face  gently  as  he  spoke.  "Your 
skin  is  so  smooth — is  it  fair?" 

"  Yes,  Daddy." 

"I  think  you  must  be  beautiful;  I  have 
asked  Miriam  so  often,  but  she  will  not  tell  me. 
She  only  says  you  look  well  enough  and 
something  like  your  mother.  Are  you 
beautiful?" 


H  flDafcer  of 


"Oh,  Daddy!  Daddy!"  laughed  Barbara, 
in  confusion.  "  You  must  n't  ask  such  ques 
tions!  Didn't  you  say  you  had  made  two 
songs  ?  What  is  the  other  one  ? ' ' 

Miriam  sat  in  the  dining-room,  out  of  sight 
but  within  hearing.  Having  observed  that 
in  her  presence  they  laughed  less,  she  spent 
her  evenings  alone  unless  they  urged  her  to 
join  them.  She  had  a  newspaper  more  than 
a  week  old,  but,  as  yet,  she  had  not  read  it. 
She  sat  staring  into  the  shadows,  with  the 
light  of  her  one  candle  flickering  upon  her 
face,  nervously  moving  her  work-worn  hands. 

"The  other  song,"  reminded  Barbara,  gently. 

"This  one  was  about  a  sunset,"  he  sighed. 
"It  was  such  a  sunset  as  was  never  on  sea 
or  land,  because  two  who  loved  each  other  saw 
it  together.  God  and  all  His  angels  had  hung 
a  marvellous  tapestry  from  the  high  walls  of 
Heaven,  and  it  reached  almost  to  the  moun 
tain-tops,  where  some  of  the  little  clouds 
sleep. 

"The  man  said,  'Shall  we  always  look  for 
the  sunsets  together? ' 

"The  woman  smiled  and  answered,  'Yes, 
always/ 

"And/  the  man  continued,  'when  one 
of  us  goes  on  the  last  long  journey?' 

'Then/  answered  the  woman,  'the  other 
will  not  be  watching  alone.  For,  I  think, 
there  in  the  West  is  the  Golden  City  with  the 


Song  of 

tbe 
Sunset 


12 


jflower  ot  tbe  2>usfe 


Ube  IRcaF 
Song 


jasper  walls  and  the  jewelled  foundations,  where 
the  twelve  gates  are  twelve  pearls.' ' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "And  so — " 
said  Barbara,  softly. 

Ambrose  North  lifted  his  grey  head  from  his 
hands  and  rose  to  his  feet  unsteadily.  "And 
so,"  he  said,  with  difficulty,  "she  leans  from 
the  sunset  toward  him,  but  he  can  never 
see  her,  because  he  is  blind.  Oh,  Barbara/' 
he  cried,  passionately,  "last  night  I  dreamed 
that  you  could  walk  and  I  could  see!" 

"So  we  can,  Daddy,"  said  Barbara,  very 
gently.  "Our  souls  are  neither  blind  nor 
lame.  Here,  I  am  eyes  for  you  and  you  are 
feet  for  me,  so  we  belong  together.  And — 
past  the  sunset ' 

"Past  the  sunset,"  repeated  the  old  man, 
dreamily,  "soul  and  body  shall  be  as  one. 
We  must  wait — for  life  is  made  up  of  waiting 
— and  make  what  songs  we  can." 

"  I  think,  Father,  that  a  song  should  be  in 
poetry,  should  n't  it  ? 

"Some  of  them  are,  but  more  are  not. 
Some  are  music  and  some  are  words,  and  some, 
like  prayers,  are  feeling.  The  real  song  is  in 
the  thrush's  heart,  not  in  the  silvery  rain 
of  sound  that  comes  from  the  green  boughs 
in  Spring.  When  you  open  the  door  of  your 
heart  and  let  all  the  joy  rush  out,  laughing — 
then  you  are  making  a  song." 

"But — is  there  always  joy?" 


H  /IDafter  of  Songs 


"  Yes,  though  sometimes  it  is  sadly  covered 
up  with  other  things.  We  must  find  it  and 
divide  it,  for  only  in  that  way  it  grows.  Good 
night,  my  dear." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her,  while  Miriam,  with  her 
heart  full  of  nameless  yearning,  watched  them 
from  the  far  shadows.  The  sound  of  his 
footsteps  died  away  and  a  distant  door  closed. 
Soon  afterward  Miriam  took  her  candle  and 
went  noiselessly  upstairs,  but  she  did  not  say 
good-night  to  Barbara. 

Until  midnight,  the  girl  sat  at  her  sewing, 
taking  the  finest  of  stitches  in  tuck  and  hem. 
The  lamp  burning  low  made  her  needle  fly 
swiftly.  In  her  own  room  was  an  old  chest 
nearly  full  of  dainty  garments  which  she  was 
never  to  wear.  She  had  wrought  miracles 
of  embroidery  upon  some  of  them,  and  others 
were  unadorned  save  by  tucks  and  lace. 

When  the  work  was  finished,  she  folded  it 
and  laid  it  aside,  then  put  away  her  thimble 
and  thread.  "When  the  guests  come  to  the 
hotel/'  she  thought — "ah,  when  they  come,  and 
buy  all  the  things  I've  made  the  past  year,  and 
the  preserves  and  the  candied  orange  peel, 
the  rag  rugs  and  the  quilts,  then " 

So  Barbara  fell  a-dreaming,  and  the  light  of 
the  dying  embers  lay  lovingly  upon  her  face, 
already  transfigured  by  tenderness  into  beauty 
beyond  words.  The  lamp  went  out  and  little 
by  little  the  room  faded  into  twilight,  then 


yiowet  of  tbe  Dusk 


into  night.     It  was  quite  dark  when  she  leaned 
over  and  picked  up  her  crutches. 

"Dear,  dear  father,"  she  breathed.      "He 
must  never  know!" 


II 
ftfmttie 


MISS  MATTIE  was  getting  supper,  sus 
tained  by  the  comforting  thought  that 
her  task  was  utterly  beneath  her  and  had  been 
forced  upon  her  by  the  mysterious  workings 
of  an  untoward  Fate.  She  was  not  really 
"Miss,"  since  she  had  been  married  and 
widowed,  and  a  grown  son  was  waiting  im 
patiently  in  the  sitting-room  for  his  evening 
meal,  but  her  neighbours,  nearly  all  of  whom 
had  known  her  before  her  marriage,  still  called 
her  "Miss  Mattie." 

The  arbitrary  social  distinctions,  made  re 
gardless  of  personality,  are  often  cruelly 
ironical.  Many  a  man,  incapable  by  nature 
of  lifelong  devotion  to  one  woman,  becomes  a 
husband  in  half  an  hour,  duly  sanctioned  by 
Church  and  State.  A  woman  who  remains 
unmarried,  because,  with  fine  courage,  she  will 
have  her  true  mate  or  none,  is  called  "an  old 
maid."  She  may  have  the  heart  of  a  wife  and 
the  soul  of  a  mother,  but  she  cannot  escape  her 
sinister  label.  The  real  "old  maids"  are  of 


i6 


Iflovver  of  tbe  5>usfc 


B 
Grievance 


both  sexes,  and  many  are  married,  but  alas! 
seldom  to  each  other. 

In  his  introspective  moments,  Roger  Austin 
sometimes  wondered  why  marriage,  maternity, 
and  bereavement  should  have  left  no  trace 
upon  his  mother.  The  uttermost  depths  of 
life  had  been  hers  for  the  sounding,  but  Miss 
Mattie  had  refused  to  drop  her  plummet  over 
board  and  had  spent  the  years  in  prolonged 
study  of  her  own  particular  boat. 

She  came  in,  with  the  irritating  air  of  a 
martyr,  and  clucked  sharply  with  her  false 
teeth  when  she  saw  that  her  son  was  reading. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  've  done/'  she  re 
marked,  "that  I  should  have  to  live  all  the 
time  with  people  who  keep  their  noses  in 
books.  Your  pa  was  forever  readin'  and 
you  're  marked  with  it.  I  could  set  here  and 
set  here  and  set  here,  and  he  took  no  more 
notice  of  me  than  if  I  was  a  piece  of  furniture. 
When  he  died,  the  brethren  and  sistern  used 
to  come  to  condole  with  me  and  say  how  I 
must  miss  him.  There  was  n't  nothin'  to  miss, 
'cause  the  books  and  his  chair  was  left.  I  've 
a  good  mind  to  burn  'em  all  up." 

"I  won't  read  if  you  don't  want  me  to, 
Mother,"  answered  Roger,  laying  his  book 
aside  regretfully. 

"  I  dunno  but  what  I  'd  rather  you  would 
than  to  want  to  and  not,"  she  retorted,  some 
what  obscurely.  "What  I  'm  a-sayin'  is  that 


flDattte 


it 's  in  the  blood  and  you  can't  help  it.     If  I  'd     Peculiar 

,     .  .  •        ,  •  TMw  of 

known  it  was  your  pa  s  intention  to  give  him- 
self  up  so  exclusive  to  readin',  I  'd  never  have 
married  him,  that  's  all  I  've  got  to  say. 
There 's  no  sense  in  it.  Lemme  see  what 
you  're  at  now." 

She  took  the  open  book,  that  lay  face 
downward  upon  the  table,  and  read  aloud, 
awkwardly: 

"  Leave  to  the  diamond  its  ages  to  grow,  nor 
expect  to  accelerate  the  births  of  the  eternal. 
Friendship  demands  a  religious  treatment. 
We  talk  of  choosing  our  friends,  but  friends 
are  self-elected/' 

"Now,"  she  demanded,  in  a  shrill  voice, 
"what  does  that  mean?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  explain  it  to  you, 
Mother." 

"That 's  just  the  point.  Your  pa  could  n't 
never  explain  nothin',  neither.  You  're 
readin'  and  readin'  and  readin'  and  you  never 
know  what  you  're  readin'  about.  Diamonds 
growin'  and  births  bein'  hurried  up,  and  friends 
bein'  religious  and  voted  for  at  township 
elections.  Who  's  runnin'  for  friend  this 
year  on  the  Republican  ticket?"  she  inquired, 
caustically. 

Roger  managed  to  force  a  laugh.  "You 
have  your  own  peculiar  way  of  putting  things, 
Mother.  Is  supper  ready?  I  'm  as  hungry  as 
a  bear." 


i8 


jfiower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


ADfsa 
Aattfe'e 
personal 
Hppear* 


"  I  suppose  you  are.  When  it  ain't  readin', 
it 's  eatin'.  Work  all  day  to  get  a  meal  that 
don't  last  more  'n  fifteen  minutes,  and  then 
see  readin'  goin'  on  till  long  past  bedtime,  and 
oil  goin'  up  every  six  months.  Which  '11  you 
have — fresh  apple  sauce,  or  canned  rasp 
berries?" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

"Then  I  '11  get  the  apple  sauce,  because  the 
canned  raspberries  can  lay  over  as  long  as 
they  're  kept  cool." 

Miss  Mattie  shuffled  back  into  the  kitchen. 
During  the  Winter  she  wore  black  knitted 
slippers  attached  to  woollen  inner  soles  which 
had  no  heels.  She  was  well  past  the  half- 
century  mark,  but  her  face  had  few  lines  in  it 
and  her  grey  eyes  were  sharp  and  penetrating. 
Her  smooth,  pale  brown  hair,  which  did  not 
show  the  grey  in  it,  was  parted  precisely  in  the 
middle.  Every  morning  she  brushed  it  vio 
lently  with  a  stiff  brush  dipped  into  cold 
water,  and  twisted  the  ends  into  a  tight  knot 
at  the  back  of  her  head.  In  militant  moments, 
this  knot  seemed  to  rise  and  the  protruding 
ends  of  the  wire  hairpins  to  bristle  into  for 
midable  weapons  of  offence. 

She  habitually  wore  her  steel-bowed  spec 
tacles  half-way  down  her  nose.  They  might 
have  fallen  off  had  not  a  kindly  Providence 
placed  a  large  wart  where  it  would  do  the  most 
good.  On  Sundays,  when  she  put  on  shoes, 


d&attie 


corsets,  her  best  black  silk,  and  her  gold- 
bowed  spectacles,  she  took  great  pains  to  wear  obTmja 
them  properly.  When  she  reached  home, 
however,  she  always  took  off  her  fine  raiment 
and  laid  her  spectacles  aside  with  a  great  sigh 
of  relief.  Miss  Mattie's  disposition  improved 
rapidly  as  soon  as  the  old  steel-bowed  pair 
were  in  their  rightful  place,  resting  safely 
upon  the  wart. 

When  they  sat  down  to  supper,  she  reverted 
to  the  original  topic.  "As  I  was  sayin'/'  she 
began,  "there  ain't  no  sense  in  the  books  you 
and  your  pa  has  always  set  such  store  by. 
Where  he  ever  got  'em,  I  dunno,  but  they  was 
always  a  comin'.  Lots  of  'em  was  well-nigh 
wore  out  when  he  got  'em,  and  he  would  n't 
let  me  buy  nothin'  that  had  been  used  before, 
even  if  I  knew  the  folks. 

"  I  got  a  silver  coffin  plate  once  at  an  auction 
over  to  the  Ridge  for  almost  nothin'  and  your 
pa  was  as  mad  as  a  wet  hen.  There  was  a 
name  on  it,  but  it  could  have  been  scraped 
off,  and  the  rest  of  it  was  perfectly  good. 
When  you  need  a  coffin  plate  you  need  it 
awful  bad.  While  your  pa  was  rampin' 
around,  he  said  he  would  n't  have  been  sur 
prised  to  see  me  comin'  home  with  a  second 
hand  coffin  in  the  back  of  the  buggy.  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  second-hand  coffin  ?  I  've 
always  thought  his  mind  was  unsettled  by  so 
much  readin'. 


2O 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Ube 
Doctor's 


"  I  ain't  a-sayin'  but  what  some  readin'  is  all 
right.  Some  folks  has  just  moved  over  to  the 
Ridge  and  the  postmaster's  wife  was  a-showin' 
me  some  papers  they  get,  every  week.  One 
is  The  Metropolitan  Weekly,  and  the  other  The 
Housewife's  Companion.  I  must  say,  the 
stories  in  those  papers  is  certainly  beautiful. 

"Once,  when  they  come  after  their  mail, 
they  was  as  mad  as  anything  because  the 
papers  had  n't  come,  but  the  postmaster's  wife 
was  readin'  one  of  the  stories  and  settin'  up 
nights  to  do  it,  so  she  wa'n't  to  blame  for  not 
lettin'  'em  go  until  she  got  through  with  'em. 
They  slip  out  of  the  covers  just  as  easy,  and 
nobody  ever  knows  the  difference. 

"She  was  tellin'  me  about  one  of  the  stories. 
It 's  named  Lovely  Lulu,  or  the  Doctor's 
Darling.  Lovely  Lulu  is  a  little  orphant  who 
has  to  do  most  of  the  housework  for  a  family 
of  eight,  and  the  way  they  abuse  that  child  is 
something  awful.  The  young  ladies  are  for 
ever  puttin'  ruffled  white  skirts  into  her  wash, 
and  makin'  her  darn  the  lace  on  their  blue 
silk  mornin'  dresses. 

"There  's  a  rich  doctor  that  they  're  all  after 
and  one  day  little  Lulu  happens  to  open  the 
front  door  for  him,  and  he  gets  a  good  look 
at  her  for  the  first  time.  As  she  goes  up-stairs, 
Arthur  Montmorency— that 's  his  name— holds 
both  hands  to  his  heart  and  says,  'She  and 
she  only  shall  be  my  bride.'  The  conclusion  of 


flDattie 


21 


this  highly  fascinatin'  and  absorbin'  romance 
will  be  found  in  the  next  number  of  The 
Housewife  s  Companion." 

"Mother,"  suggested  Roger,  "why  don't  you 
subscribe  for  the  papers  yourself  ?" 

Miss  Mattie  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  and 
gazed  at  him  in  open-mouthed  astonishment. 
"  Roger/'  she  said,  kindly,  "  I  declare  if  some 
times  you  don't  remind  me  of  my  people 
more  'n  your  pa's.  I  never  thought  of  that 
myself  and  I  dunno  how  you  come  to.  I  '11 
do  it  the  very  first  time  I  go  down  to  the  store. 
The  postmaster's  wife  can  get  the  addresses 
without  tearin'  off  the  covers,  and  after  I  get 
'em  read  she  can  borrow  mine,  and  not  be 
always  makin'  the  people  at  the  Ridge  so  mad 
that  she  's  runnin'  the  risk  of  losin'  her  job. 
If  you  ain't  the  beatenest !" 

Basking  in  the  unaccustomed  warmth  of  his 
mother's  approval,  Roger  finished  his  supper 
in  peace.  Afterward,  while  she  was  clearing 
up,  he  even  dared  to  take  up  the  much-criti 
cised  book  and  lose  himself  once  more  in  his 
father's  beloved  Emerson. 

All  his  childish  memories  of  his  father  had 
been  blurred  into  one  by  the  mists  of  the 
intervening  years.  As  though  it  were  yester 
day,  he  could  see  the  library  upstairs,  which 
was  still  the  same,  and  the  grave,  silent,  kindly 
man  who  sat  dreaming  over  his  books.  When 


CbilMeb 
memories 


22 


jflower  of  tbe  2Dusfe 


TIbe 
priceless 

legacy 


the  child  entered,  half  afraid  because  the  room 
was  so  quiet,  the  man  had  risen  and  caught 
him  in  his  arms  with  such  hungry  passion 
that  he  had  almost  cried  out. 

"Oh,  my  son,"  came  in  the  deep,  rich 
voice,  vibrant  with  tenderness;  "my  dear 
little  son!" 

That  was  all,  save  a  few  old  photographs 
and  the  priceless  legacy  of  the  books.  The 
library  was  not  a  large  one,  but  it  had  been 
chosen  by  a  man  of  discriminating,  yet  catho 
lic,  taste.  The  books  had  been  used  and  were 
not,  as  so  often  happens,  merely  ornaments. 
Page  after  page  had  been  interlined  and  there 
was  scarcely  a  volume  which  was  not  rich 
in  marginal  notes,  sometimes  questioning  in 
character,  but  indicating  always  understanding 
and  appreciation. 

As  soon  as  he  learned  to  read,  Roger 
began  to  spend  his  leisure  hours  in  this  library. 
When  he  could  not  understand  a  book,  he  put 
it  aside  and  took  up  another.  Always  there 
were  pictures  and  sometimes  many  of  them, 
for  in  his  later  years  Laurence  Austin  had 
contracted  the  baneful  habit  of  extra-illus 
tration.  Never  maternal,  save  in  the  limited 
physical  sense,  Miss  Mattie  had  been  glad  to 
have  the  child  out  of  her  way. 

Day  by  day,  the  young  mind  grew  and  ex 
panded  in  its  own  way.  Year  by  year,  Roger 
came  to  an  affectionate  knowledge  of  his 


dDattte 


23 


father,  through  the  medium  of  the  marginal 
notes.  He  wondered,  sometimes,  that  a  pencil 
mark  should  so  long  outlive  the  fine,  strong 
body  of  the  man  who  made  it.  It  seemed  piti 
ful,  in  a  way,  and  yet  he  knew  that  books  and 
letters  are  the  things  that  endure,  in  a  world 
of  transition  and  decay. 

The  underlined  passages  and  the  marginal 
comments  gave  evidence  of  an  extraordinary 
love  of  beauty,  in  whatever  shape  or  form. 
And  yet  —  the  parlour,  which  was  opened  only 
on  Sunday  —  was  hideous  with  a  gaudy  carpet, 
stuffed  chairs,  family  portraits  done  in  crayon 
and  inflicted  upon  the  house  by  itinerant 
vendors  of  tea  and  coffee,  and  there  was  a 
basket  of  wax  flowers,  protected  by  glass,  on 
the  marble-topped  "centre-table." 

The  pride  of  Miss  Mattie's  heart  was  a  chair, 
which,  with  incredible  industry,  she  had  made 
from  an  empty  flour  barrel.  She  had  spoiled 
a  good  barrel  to  make  a  bad  chair,  but  her 
thrifty  soul  rejoiced  in  her  achievement. 
Roger  never  went  near  it,  so  Miss  Mattie  her 
self  sat  in  it  on  Sunday  afternoons,  nodding, 
and  crooning  hymns  to  herself. 

"  How  did  father  stand  it  ?"  thought  Roger, 
intending  no  disrespect.  He  loved  his  mother 
and  appreciated  her  good  qualities,  but  he 
saw  the  awful  chasm  between  those  two  souls, 
which  no  ceremony  of  marriage  could  ever  span. 

In  appearance,  Roger  was  like  his  father. 


f  lower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


He  had  the  same  clear,  dark  skin,  with  regular 
features  and  kind,  dark  eyes,  the  same  abun 
dant,  wavy  hair,  strong,  square  chin,  and 
incongruous,  beauty-loving  mouth.  He  had, 
too,  the  lovable  boyishness,  which  never  quite 
leaves  some  fortunate  men.  He  was  studying 
law  in  the  judge's  office,  and  hoped  by  another 
year  to  be  ready  to  take  his  examinations. 
After  working  hard  all  day,  he  found  refresh 
ment  for  mind  and  body  in  an  hour  or  so  at 
night  spent  with  the  treasures  of  his  father's 
library. 

"  Let  us  buy  our  entrance  to  this  guild  with 
a  long  probation,"  read  Roger.  "Why  should 
we  desecrate  noble  and  beautiful  souls  by 
intruding  upon  them?  Why  insist  upon  rash 
personal  relations  with  your  friend  ?  Why  go 
to  his  house,  and  know  his  mother  and  brother 
and  sisters?  Why  be  visited  by  him  at  your 
own?  Are  these  things  material  to  our  cove 
nant?  Leave  this  touching  and  clawing.  Let 
him  be  to  me 

"  I  've  spoke  twice,"  complained  Miss  Mattie, 
"and  you  don't  hear  me  no  more  'n  your  pa 
did." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mother.  I  did  not  hear 
you  come  in.  What  is  it?" 

"  I  was  just  a-sayin'  that  maybe  those  papers 
would  be  too  expensive.  Maybe  I  ought  not 
to  have  'em." 

"  I  'm  sure  they  're  not,  Mother.     Anyhow, 


flDattfe 


you  get  them,  and  we  '11  make  it  up  in  some 
other  way  if  we  have  to."  Dimly,  in  the  fu 
ture,  Roger  saw  long,  quiet  evenings  in  which 
his  disturbing  influence  should  be  rendered 
null  and  void  by  the  charms  of  Lovely  Lulu, 
or  ibe  Doctor's  Darling. 

"  Barbara  North  sent  her  pa  over  here  this 
morning  to  ask  for  some  book.  I  disremember 
now  what  it  was,  but  it  was  after  you  was 
gone." 

Roger's  expressive  face  changed  instantly. 
"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  sooner,  Mother?" 
He  spoke  with  evident  effort.  "  It 's  too  late 
now  for  me  to  go  over  there." 

"There  's  no  call  for  you  to  go  over.  They 
can  send  again.  Miss  Miriam  can  come  after 
it  any  time.  They  ain't  got  no  business  to 
let  a  blind  old  man  like  Ambrose  North  run 
around  by  himself  the  way  they  do." 

"He  takes  very  good  care  of  himself.  He 
knew  this  place  before  he  was  blind,  and  I 
don't  think  there  is  any  danger." 

"Just  the  same,  he  ought  not  to  go  around 
alone,  and  that 's  what  I  told  him  this  morning. 
'A  blind  old  man  like  you/  says  I,  'ain't  got 
no  business  chasin'  around  alone.  First  thing 
you  know,  you  '11  fall  down  and  break  a  leg  or 
arm  or  something/  ' 

Roger  shrank  as  if  from  a  physical  hurt. 
"Mother!"  he  cried.  "How  can  you  say  such 
things!" 


H  too  [Us 

ing  Call 


26 


flower  of  tbe  Dusk 


IDancKtous 
IRochs 


"Why  not?"  she  queried,  imperturbably. 
"  He  knows  he  's  blind,  I  guess,  and  he  certainly 
can't  think  he  's  young,  so  what  harm  does  it 
do  to  speak  of  it?  Anyway/'  she  added, 
piously,  "  I  always  say  just  what  I  think." 

Roger  got  up,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  paced  back  and  forth  restlessly.  "  People 
who  always  say  what  they  think,  Mother," 
he  answered,  not  unkindly,  "assume  that 
their  opinions  are  of  great  importance  to 
people  who  probably  do  not  care  for  them  at 
all.  Unless  directly  asked,  it  is  better  to  say 
only  the  kind  things  and  keep  the  rest  to 
ourselves." 

"  I  was  kind,"  objected  Miss  Mattie.  "  I 
was  tellin'  him  he  ought  not  to  take  the  risk 
of  hurtin'  himself  by  runnin'  around  alone. 
I  don't  know  what  ails  you,  Roger.  Every 
day  you  get  more  and  more  like  your  pa." 

"  How  long  had  you  and  father  known  each 
other  before  you  were  married?"  asked  Roger, 
steering  quickly  away  from  the  dangerous 
rocks  that  will  loom  up  in  the  best-regulated 
of  conversations. 

"'Bout  three  months.    Why?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  know." 

"I  used  to  be  a  pretty  girl,  Roger,  though 
you  might  n't  think  it  now."  Her  voice  was 
softened,  and,  taking  of!  her  spectacles,  she 
gazed  far  into  space;  seemingly  to  that  dis 
tant  girlhood  when  radiant  youth  lent  to 


/IDattte 


the  grey  old  world  some  of  its  own  immortal       ®reat 

&     *  -Rottcns 

joy. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Roger,  politely. 

"  Your  pa  and  me  used  to  go  to  church  to 
gether.  He  sang  in  the  choir  and  I  had  a  white 
dress  and  a  bonnet  trimmed  with  lutestring 
ribbon.  I  can  smell  the  clover  now  and  hear 
the  bees  hummin'  when  the  windows  was  open 
in  Summer.  A  bee  come  in  once  while  the 
minister  was  prayin'  and  lighted  on  Deacon 
Emory's  bald  head.  Seems  a'most  as  if  't  was 
yesterday. 

"  Your  pa  had  great  notions,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  pause.  "Just  before  we  was  married, 
he  said  he  was  goin'  to  educate  me,  but  he 
never  did." 


28 


B  toappg 

Ubougbt 


III 

£ower  of  Cologne 

ROGER  sat  in  Ambrose  North's  easy  chair, 
watching  Barbara  while  she  sewed.  "  I 
am  sorry/'  he  said,  "that  I  wasn't  at  home 
when  your  father  came  over  after  the  book. 
Mother  was  unable  to  find  it.  I  'm  afraid  I  'm 
not  very  orderly." 

"It  doesn't  matter/'  returned  Barbara, 
threading  her  needle  again.  "  I  steal  too  much 
time  from  my  work  as  it  is." 

Roger  sighed  and  turned  restlessly  in  his 
chair.  "  I  wish  I  could  come  over  every  day 
and  read  to  you,  but  you  know  how  it  is. 
Days,  I  'm  in  the  office  with  the  musty  old  law 
books,  and  in  the  evenings,  your  father  wants 
you  and  my  mother  wants  me." 

"  I  know,  but  father  usually  goes  to  bed  by 
nine,  and  I  'm  sure  your  mother  does  n't  sit 
up  much  later,  for  I  usually  see  her  light  by 
that  time.  I  always  work  until  eleven  or  half 
past,  so  why  should  n't  you  come  over 
then?" 

"  Happy  thought ! "  exclaimed  Roger.   "  Still, 


ZTbe  Uower  of  Cologne 


you  might  not  always  want  me.  How  shall 
I  know?" 

"  I  '11  put  a  candle  in  the  front  window," 
suggested  Barbara,  "and  if  you  can  come,  all 
right.  If  not,  I  '11  understand." 

Both  laughed  delightedly  at  the  idea,  for 
they  were  young  enough  to  find  a  certain 
pleasure  in  clandestine  ways  and  means. 
Miss  Mattie  had  so  far  determinedly  set  her 
face  against  her  son's  association  with  the 
young  of  the  other  sex,  and  even  Barbara, 
who  had  been  born  lame  and  had  never  walked 
farther  than  her  own  garden,  came  under  the 
ban. 

Ambrose  North,  with  the  keen  and  uncon 
scious  selfishness  of  age,  begrudged  others  even 
an  hour  of  Barbara's  society.  He  felt  a  third 
person  always  as  an  intruder,  though  he  tried 
his  best  to  appear  hospitable  when  anyone 
came.  Miriam  might  sometimes  have  read  to 
Barbara,  while  he  was  out  upon  his  long, 
lonely  walks,  but  it  had  never  occurred  to 
either  of  them. 

Through  Laurence  Austin's  library,  as  trans 
ported  back  and  forth  by  Roger,  one  volume 
at  a  time,  Barbara  had  come  into  the  world 
wide  fellowship  of  those  who  love  books.  She 
was  closely  housed  and  constantly  at  work, 
but  her  mind  soared  free.  When  the  poverty 
and  ugliness  of  her  surroundings  oppressed 
her  beauty-loving  soul ;  when  her  fingers  ached 


jfellowsbfp 


3° 


flower  of  tbe  Busfc 


<Ma&  of  ancj  the  stitches  blurred  into  mist  before  her 
eyes,  some  little  brown  book,  much  worn, 
had  often  given  her  the  key  to  the  House  of 
Content. 

"Shall  you  always  have  to  sew?"  asked 
Roger.  "Is  there  no  way  out?" 

"  Not  unless  some  fairy  prince  comes  pranc 
ing  up  on  a  white  charger/'  laughed  Barbara, 
"  and  takes  us  all  away  with  him  to  his  palace. 
Don't  pity  me,"  she  went  on,  her  lips  quiver 
ing  a  little,  "for  every  day  I  'm  glad  I  can  do 
it  and  keep  father  from  knowing  we  are  poor. 

"  Besides,  I  'm  of  use  in  the  world,  and  I 
would  n't  want  to  live  if  I  could  n't  work. 
Aunt  Miriam  works,  too.  She  does  all  the 
housework,  takes  care  of  me  when  I  can't  help 
myself,  does  the  mending,  many  things  for 
father,  and  makes  the  quilts,  preserves,  candied 
orange  peel,  and  the  other  little  things  we  sell. 
People  are  so  kind  to  us.  Last  Summer  the 
women  at  the  hotel  bought  everything  we  had 
and  left  orders  enough  to  keep  me  busy  until 
long  after  Christmas." 

"Don't  call  people  kind  because  they  buy 
what  they  want." 

"Don't  be  so  cynical.  You  would  n't  have 
them  buy  things  they  did  n't  want,  would 
you?" 

"Sometimes  they  do." 

"Where?" 

"Well,  at  church  fairs,  for  instance.    They 


Ube  Uower  of  Cologne 


31 


spend  more  than  they  can  afford  for  things  they 
do  not  want,  in  order  to  please  people  whom 
they  do  not  like  and  help  heathen  who  are 
much  happier  than  they  are/' 

"  I  'm  glad  I  'm  not  running  a  church  fair," 
laughed  Barbara.  "And  who  told  you  that 
heathen  are  happier  than  we  are  ?  Are  you  a 
heathen  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Most  of  us  are,  I  suppose, 
in  one  way  or  another.  But  how  nice  it  would 
be  if  we  could  paint  ourselves  instead  of 
wearing  clothes,  and  go  under  a  tree  when  it 
rained,  and  pick  cocoanuts  or  bananas  when 
we  were  hungry.  It  would  save  so  much 
trouble  and  expense." 

" Paint  is  sticky,"  observed  Barbara,  "and 
the  rain  would  come  around  the  tree  when  the 
wind  was  blowing  from  all  ways  at  once,  as  it 
does  sometimes,  and  I  do  not  like  either  cocoa- 
nuts  or  bananas.  I  'd  rather  sew.  What  went 
wrong  to-day?"  she  asked,  with  a  whimsical 
smile.  "  Everything  ?  " 

"Almost,"  admitted  Roger.  "How  did 
you  know?" 

"  Because  you  want  to  be  a  heathen  instead 
of  the  foremost  lawyer  of  your  time.  Your 
ambition  is  an  unfailing  barometer." 

He  laughed  lightly.  This  sort  of  banter 
was  very  pleasing  to  him  after  a  day  with  the 
law  books  and  an  hour  or  more  with  his  mother. 
He  had  known  Barbara  since  they  were 


TflnfaUing 
Barometer 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


None 


children  and  their  comradeship  dated  back  to 
the  mud-pie  days. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  you  're  right,"  he 
said.  "Whether  I  go  to  Congress  or  the 
Fiji  Islands  may  depend,  eventually,  upon 
Judge  Bascom's  liver." 

"  Don't  let  it  depend  upon  him,"  cautioned 
Barbara.  "Make  your  own  destiny.  It  was 
Napoleon,  was  n't  it,  who  prided  himself  upon 
making  his  own  circumstances  ?  What  would 
you  do— or  be— if  you  could  have  your  choice  ?" 

"The  best  lawyer  in  the  State,"  he  answered, 
promptly.  "  I  'd  never  oppose  the  innocent 
nor  defend  the  guilty.  And  I  'd  have  money 
enough  to  be  comfortable  and  to  make  those 
I  love  comfortable." 

"Would  you  marry?"  she  asked,  thought 
fully. 

"Why — I  suppose  so.  It  would  seem  queer, 
though." 

"Roger,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "you  were 
born  a  year  and  more  before  I  was,  and  yet 
you  're  fully  ten  or  fifteen  years  younger." 

"  Don't  take  me  back  too  far,  Barbara,  for 
I  hate  milk.  Please  don't  deprive  me  of  my 
solid  food.  What  would  you  do,  if  you  could 
choose?" 

"  I  'd  write  a  book." 

"What  kind?     Dictionary?" 

"No,  just  a  little  book.  The  sort  that 
people  who  love  each  other  would  choose  for 


Ube  Uower  of  Cologne  33 

a  gift.  Something  that  would  be  given  to 
one  who  was  going  on  a  long  or  difficult  jour 
ney.  The  one  book  a  woman  would  take  with 
her  when  she  was  tired  and  went  away  to  rest. 
A  book  with  laughter  and  tears  in  it  and  so 
much  fine  courage  that  it  would  be  given  to 
those  who  are  in  deep  trouble.  I  'd  soften  the 
hard  hearts,  rest  the  weary  ones,  and  give  the 
despairing  ones  new  strength  to  go  on.  Just  a 
little  book,  but  so  brave  and  true  and  sweet 
and  tender  that  it  would  bring  the  sun  to  every 
shady  place." 

"Would  you  marry?" 

"Of  course,  if  the  right  man  came.  Other 
wise  not." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Roger,  "how  a  person 
could  know  the  right  one?" 

"  Foolish  child,"  she  answered,  "  that 's  it 
— the  knowing.  When  you  don't  know,  it 
is  n't  it." 

"My  dear  Miss  North,"  remarked  Roger, 
"the  heads  of  your  argument  are  somewhat 
involved,  but  I  think  I  grasp  your  meaning. 
When  you  know  it  is,  then  it  is,  but  when  you 
don't  know  that  it  is,  then  it  isn  't.  Is  that 
right  ?  " 

"Exactly.  Wonderfully  intelligent  for  one 
so  young." 

Barbara's  blue  eyes  danced  merrily  and  her 
red  lips  parted  in  a  mocking  smile.  A  long 
heavy  braid  of  hair,  "the  colour  of  ripe  corn," 


34 


jflower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


Simply 
SBarbara 


hung  over  either  shoulder  and  into  her  lap. 
She  was  almost  twenty-two,  but  she  still  clung 
to  the  childish  fashion  of  dressing  her  hair, 
because  the  heavy  braids  and  the  hairpins 
made  her  head  ache.  All  her  gowns  were 
white,  either  of  wool  or  cotton,  and  were  made 
to  be  washed.  On  Sundays,  she  sometimes 
wore  blue  ribbons  on  her  braids. 

To  Roger,  she  was  very  fair.  He  never 
thought  of  her  crutches  because  she  had  always 
been  lame.  She  was  simply  Barbara,  and 
Barbara  needed  crutches.  It  had  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  she  might  in  any  way  be 
different,  for  he  was  not  one  of  those  restless 
souls  who  are  forever  making  people  over  to 
fit  their  own  patterns. 

"Why  does  n't  your  father  like  to  have  me 
come  here  ?  "  asked  Roger,  irrelevantly. 

"Why  does  n't  your  mother  like  to  have  you 
come?"  queried  Barbara,  quickly  on  the 
defensive. 

"No,  but  tell  me.     Please!" 

"Father  always  goes  to  bed  early." 

"  But  not  at  eight  o'clock.  It  was  a  quarter 
of  eight  when  I  came,  and  by  eight  he  was 
gone." 

"  It  is  n't  you,  Roger,"  she  said,  unwillingly; 
"it 's  anyone.  I  'm  all  he  has,  and  if  I  talk 
much  to  other  people  he  feels  as  if  I  were  be 
ing  taken  away  from  him — that 's  all.  It 's 
natural,  I  suppose.  You  must  n't  mind  him." 


Ube  Uower  ot  Cologne  35 

"  But  I  would  n't  hurt  him,"  returned 
Roger,  softly;  "you  know  that." 

"  I  know." 

"  I  wish  you  could  make  him  understand 
that  I  come  to  see  every  one  of  you." 

"  It 's  the  hardest  work  in  the  world," 
sighed  Barbara,  "to  make  people  understand 
things." 

"  Somebody  said  once  that  all  the  wars  had 
been  caused  by  one  set  of  people  trying  to  force 
their  opinions  upon  another  set,  who  did  not 
desire  to  have  their  minds  changed." 

"Very  true.  I  wonder,  sometimes,  if  we 
have  done  right  with  father." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  have,"  said  Roger,  gently. 
"  You  could  n't  do  anything  wrong  if  you 
tried." 

"We  have  n't  meant  to,"  she  answered,  her 
sweet  face  growing  grave.  "Of  course  it  was 
all  begun  long  before  I  was  old  enough  to 
understand.  He  thinks  the  city  house,  which 
we  lost  so  long  ago  that  I  cannot  even  remember 
our  having  it,  was  sold  for  so  high  a  price  that 
it  would  have  been  foolish  not  to  sell  it,  and 
that  we  live  here  because  we  prefer  the  country. 
Just  think,  Roger,  before  I  was  born,  this  was 
father's  and  mother's  Summer  home,  and  now 
it 's  all  we  have." 

"  It 's  a  roof  and  four  walls — that 's  all  any 
house  is,  without  the  spirit  that  makes  it 
home." 


3f  lower  of  tbe  Dusk 


H  Saint's 
Conscience 


"  He  thinks  it 's  beautifully  furnished.  Of 
course  we  have  the  old  mahogany  and  some  of 
the  pictures,  but  we  've  had  to  sell  nearly 
everything.  I  've  used  some  of  mother's  real 
laces  in  the  sewing  and  sold  practically  all  the 
rest.  Whatever  anyone  would  buy  has  been 
disposed  of.  Even  the  broken  furniture  in  the 
attic  has  gone  to  people  who  had  a  fancy  for 
'antiques.'" 

"  You  have  made  him  very  happy,  Barbara." 

"  I  know,  but  is  it  right  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  orthodox,  my  dear  girl,  but,  speak 
ing  as  a  lawyer,  if  it  harms  no  one  and 
makes  a  blind  old  man  happy,  it  can't  be 
wrong." 

"  I  hope  you  're  right,  but  sometimes  my 
conscience  bothers  me." 

"Imagine  a  saint's  conscience  being 
troublesome." 

"Don't  laugh  at  me — you  know  I  'm  not  a 
saint." 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Ask  Aunt  Miriam.  She  has  no  illusions 
about  me." 

"Thanks,  but  I  don't  know  her  well  enough. 
We  have  n't  been  on  good  terms  since  she 
drove  me  out  of  the  melon  patch — do  you 
remember?" 

"Yes,  I  remember.  We  wanted  the 
blossoms,  did  n't  we,  to  make  golden  bells 
in  the  Tower  of  Cologne?" 


Uower  ot  Cologne 


37 


"I  believe  so.  We  never  got  the  Tower 
finished,  did  we?" 

"No.  I  wasn't  allowed  to  play  with  you 
for  a  long  time,  because  you  were  such  a  bad 
boy." 

"Next  Summer,  I  think  we  should  rebuild  it. 
Let 's  renew  our  youth  sometime  by  making 
the  Tower  of  Cologne  in  your  back  yard." 

"There  are  no  golden  bells." 

"  I  '11  get  some  from  somewhere.  We  owe 
it  to  ourselves  to  do  it." 

Barbara's  blue  eyes  were  sparkling  now,  and 
her  sweet  lips  smiled.  "When  it 's  done?"  she 
asked. 

"We'll  move  into  it  and  be  happy  ever 
afterward,  like  the  people  in  the  fairy  tales." 

"  I  said  a  little  while  ago  that  you  were 
fifteen  years  younger  than  I  am,  but,  upon 
my  word,  I  believe  it 's  nearer  twenty." 

"That  makes  me  an  enticing  infant  of  three 
or  four,  flourishing  like  the  green  bay  tree  on 
a  diet  of  bread  and  milk  with  an  occasional 
soft-boiled  egg.  I  should  have  been  in  bed 
by  six  o'clock,  and  now  it 's — gracious,  Bar 
bara,  it 's  after  eleven.  What  do  you  mean 
by  keeping  the  young  up  so  late?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  hurriedly  found  his  hat, 
and,  reaching  into  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat, 
drew  out  a  book.  "That 's  the  one  you 
wanted,  is  n't  it?" 

"  Yes.,  thank  you." 


Iffee  Jfatrs 
Uales 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusk 


Sacfe  to 
CbUDboofc 


"  I  did  n't  give  it  to  you  before  because  I 
wanted  to  talk,  but  we  '11  read,  sometimes, 
when  we  can.  Don't  forget  to  put  the  light 
in  the  window  when  it 's  all  right  for  me  to 
come.  If  I  don't,  you  '11  understand.  And 
please  don't  work  so  hard." 

Barbara  smiled.  "I  have  to  earn  a  living 
for  three  healthy  people,"  she  said,  "and  every 
body  is  trying,  by  moral  suasion,  to  prevent 
me  from  doing  it.  Do  you  want  us  all  piled 
up  in  the  front  yard  in  a  nice  little  heap  of 
bones  before  the  Tower  of  Cologne  is  rebuilt?" 

Roger  took  both  her  hands  and  attempted 
to  speak,  but  his  face  suddenly  crimsoned,  and 
he  floundered  out  into  the  darkness  like  an 
awkward  school-boy  instead  of  a  self-possessed 
young  man  of  almost  twenty-four.  It  had 
occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  very  nice  to 
kiss  Barbara. 

But  Barbara,  magically  taken  back  to  child 
hood,  did  not  notice  his  confusion.  The 
Tower  of  Cologne  had  been  a  fancy  of  hers 
ever  since  she  could  remember,  though  it  had 
been  temporarily  eclipsed  by  the  hard  work 
which  circumstances  had  thrust  upon  her.  As 
she  grew  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  it  had 
changed  very  little — the  dream,  always,  was 
practically  the  same. 

The  Tower  itself  was  made  of  cologne  bottles 
neatly  piled  together,  and  the  brightly-tinted 
labels  gave  it  a  bizarre  but  beautiful  effect.  It 


ilbe  Uower  of  Cologne 


39 


was  square  in  shape  and  very  high,  with  a 
splendid  cupola  of  clear  glass  arches — the 
labels  probably  would  not  show,  up  so  high. 
It  stood  in  an  enchanted  land  with  the  sea 
behind  it — nobody  had  ever  thought  of  taking 
Barbara  down  to  the  sea,  though  it  was  so 
near.  The  sea  was  always  blue,  of  course, 
like  the  sky,  or  the  larkspur — she  was  never 
quite  sure  of  the  colour. 

The  air  all  around  the  Tower  smelled  sweet, 
just  like  cologne.  There  was  a  flight  of  steps, 
also  made  of  cologne  bottles,  but  they  did  not 
break  when  you  walked  on  them,  and  the  door 
was  always  ajar.  Inside  was  a  great,  winding 
staircase  which  led  to  the  cupola.  You  could 
climb  and  climb  and  climb,  and  when  you  were 
tired,  you  could  stop  to  rest  in  any  of  the  rooms 
that  were  on  the  different  floors. 

Strangely  enough,  in  the  Tower  of  Cologne, 
Barbara  was  never  lame.  She  always  left  her 
crutches  leaning  up  against  the  steps  outside. 
She  could  walk  and  run  like  anyone  else  and 
never  even  think  of  crutches.  There  were 
many  charming  people  in  the  Tower  and  none 
of  them  ever  said,  pityingly,  "It's  too  bad 
you  're  lame." 

All  the  dear  people  of  the  books  lived  in 
the  Tower  of  Cologne,  besides  many  more, 
whom  Barbara  did  not  know.  Maggie  Tulli- 
ver,  Little  Nell,  Dora,  Agnes,  Mr.  Pickwick, 
King  Arthur,  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  un- 


HlDay 
Dream 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


numbered  others  dwelt  happily  there.  They 
all  knew  Barbara  and  were  always  glad  to  see 
her. 

Wonderful  tapestries  were  hung  along  the 
stairs,  there  were  beautiful  pictures  in  every 
room,  and  whatever  you  wanted  to  eat  was 
instantly  placed  before  you.  Each  room 
smelled  of  a  different  kind  of  cologne  and  no 
two  rooms  were  furnished  alike.  Her  friends 
in  the  Tower  were  of  all  ages  and  of  many 
different  stations  in  life,  but  there  was  one 
whose  face  she  had  never  seen.  He  was  always 
just  as  old  as  Barbara,  and  was  closer  to  her 
than  the  rest. 

When  she  lost  herself  in  the  queer  winding 
passages,  the  Boy,  whose  face  she  was  unable 
to  picture,  was  always  at  her  side  to  show  her 
the  way  out.  They  both  wanted  to  get  up 
into  the  cupola  and  ring  all  the  golden  bells  at 
once,  but  there  seemed  to  be  some  law  against 
it,  for  when  they  were  almost  there,  something 
always  happened.  Either  the  Tower  itself 
vanished  beyond  recall,  or  Aunt  Miriam  called 
her,  or  an  imperative  voice  summoned  the  Boy 
downstairs — and  Barbara  would  not  think  of 
going  to  the  cupola  without  him. 

When  she  and  Roger  had  begun  to  make 
mud  pies  together,  she  had  told  him  about 
the  Tower  and  got  him  interested  in  it,  too — 
all  but  the  Boy  whose  face  she  was  unable  to 
see  and  whose  name  she  did  not  know.  In 


ZTower  of  Cologne 


the  Tower,  she  addressed  him  simply  as  "  Boy." 
Barbara  kept  him  to  herself  for  some  occult 
reason.  Roger  liked  the  Tower  very  much, 
but  thought  the  construction  might  possibly 
be  improved.  Barbara  never  allowed  him  to 
make  any  changes.  He  could  build  another 
Tower  for  himself,  if  he  chose,  and  have  it  just 
as  he  wanted  it,  but  this  was  her  very  own. 

It  all  seemed  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  "And," 
mused  Barbara,  "it  was  almost  sixteen  years 
ago,  when  I  was  six  and  Roger  'seven-going- 
on-eight/  as  he  always  said."  The  dear  Tower 
still  stood  in  her  memory,  but  far  off  and  veiled, 
like  a  mirage  seen  in  the  clouds.  The  Boy 
who  helped  her  over  the  difficult  places  was  a 
grown  man  now,  tall  and  straight  and  strong, 
but  she  could  not  see  his  face. 

"It 's  queer,"  thought  Barbara,  as  she  put 
out  the  light.  "I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall." 

That  night  she  dreamed  of  the  Tower  of 
Cologne,  in  the  old,  enchanted  land,  where  a 
blue  sky  bent  down  to  meet  a  bluer  sea.  She 
and  the  Boy  were  in  the  cupola,  making  music 
with  the  golden  bells.  Their  laughter  chimed 
in  with  the  sweet  sound  of  the  ringing,  but  still, 
she  could  not  see  his  face. 


Hn 

£ncbante& 
land 


jfintebtna 
Uoucbce 


IV 

Seventb  of  3une 


BARBARA  sat  by  the  old  chest  which  held 
her  completed  work,  frowning  prettily 
over  a  note-book  in  her  lap.  She  was  very 
methodical,  and,  in  some  inscrutable  way, 
things  had  become  mixed.  She  kept  track  of 
every  yard  of  lace  and  linen  and  every  spool  of 
thread,  for,  it  was  evident,  she  must  know  the 
exact  cost  of  the  material  and  the  amount  of 
time  spent  on  a  garment  before  it  could  be 
accurately  priced. 

Aunt  Miriam  had  carefully  pressed  the 
lingerie  after  it  was  made  and  laid  it  away  in 
the  chest  with  lavender  to  keep  it  from  turn 
ing  yellow.  There  remained  only  the  last  fin 
ishing  touches.  Aunt  Miriam  could  have  put 
in  the  ribbons  as  well  as  she  could,  but  Barbara 
chose  to  do  it  herself. 

Three  prices  were  put  on  each  tag  in  Bar 
bara's  private  cipher,  understood  only  by 
Aunt  Miriam.  The  highest  was  the  one  hoped 
for,  the  next  the  probable  one,  and  the  lowest 


Ube  Sepentb  ot  5une  43 

one  was  to  be  taken  only  at  the  end  of  the 
season. 

Already  four  or  five  early  arrivals  were  re 
ported  at  the  hotel.  By  the  end  of  next  week, 
it  would  be  proper  for  Aunt  Miriam  to  go  down 
with  a  few  of  the  garments  packed  in  a  box 
with  tissue  paper,  and  see  what  she  could  do. 
Barbara  had  used  nearly  all  of  her  material 
and  had  sent  for  more,  but,  in  the  meantime, 
she  was  using  the  scraps  for  handkerchiefs, 
pin-cushion  covers,  and  heart-shaped  corsage 
pads,  delicately  scented  and  trimmed  with  lace 
and  ribbon. 

Once,  Aunt  Miriam  had  gone  to  the  city 
for  material  and  patterns,  and  had  priced 
hand-made  lingerie  in  the  shops.  When  she 
came  back  with  an  itemised  report,  Barbara 
had  clapped  her  hands  in  glee,  for  she  saw  the 
wealth  of  Croesus  looming  up  ahead.  She  had 
soon  learned,  however,  that  she  must  keep  far 
below  the  city  prices  if  she  would  tempt  the 
horde  of  Summer  visitors  who  came,  yearly,  to 
the  hotel.  At  times,  she  thought  that  Aunt 
Miriam  must  have  been  dreadfully  mistaken. 

Barbara  put  down  the  highest  price  of  every 
separate  article  in  the  small,  neat  hand  that 
Aunt  Miriam  had  taught  her  to  write — for  she 
had  never  been  to  school.  If  she  should  sell 
everything,  why,  there  would  be  more  than  a 
year  of  comfort  for  them  all,  and  new  clothes 
for  father,  who  was  beginning  to  look  shabby. 


44 


jflowcr  ot  the  IDusfe 


.  • .  .  , 


"  But  they  won't,"  Barbara  said  to  herself, 
sadly.  "  I  can't  expect  them  to  buy  it  all 
when  I  'm  asking  so  much." 

Down  in  the  living-room,  Ambrose  North 
was  inquiring  restlessly  for  Barbara.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  somewhat  impatiently,  "  1  know  she  's 
upstairs,  for  you  've  told  me  so  twice.  What 
I  want  to  know  is,  why  does  n't  she  come 
down  ?" 

"She's  busy  at  something,  probably,"  re 
turned  Miriam,  with  forced  carelessness,  "but 
I  think  she  '11  soon  be  through." 

"  Barbara  is  always  busy,"  he  answered, 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  can't  understand  it.  Anyone 
might  think  she  had  to  work  for  a  living. 
By  the  way,  Miriam,  do  you  need  more 
money  ?" 

"We  still  have  some,"  she  replied,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"How  much?"  he  demanded. 

"Less  than  a  hundred  dollars."  She  did 
not  dare  to  say  how  much  less. 

"That  is  not  enough.  If  you  will  get  my 
dieck-hook.  I  will  write  another  check." 

Miriam's  face  was  grimly  set  and  her  eyes 
burned  strangely  beneath  her  dark  brows. 
She  went  to  the  mahogany  desk  and  took  an 
old  check-book  out  of  the  drawer. 

"Now,"  he  said,  as  she  gave  him  the  pen 
and  ink,  "please  show  me  the  line.  'Pay  to 
the  order  of " 


Seventh  ot  June 


45 


She  guided  his  hand  with  her  own,  trying 
to  keep  her  cold  fingers  from  trembling. 
"Miriam  Leonard,"  he  spelled  out,  in  uneven 
characters,  "  Five — hundred — dollars.  Signed 
— Ambrose — North.  There.  When  you  have 
no  money,  I  wish  you  would  speak  of  it.  1 
am  fully  able  to  provide  for  my  family,  and  I 
want  to  do  it." 

"Thank  you."  Miriam's  voice  was  almost 
inaudible  as  she  took  the  check. 

"The  date,"  he  said;  "I  forgot  to  date  it. 
What  day  of  the  month  is  it  ?" 

She  moistened  her  parched  lips,  but  did  not 
speak.  This  was  what  she  had  been  dreading. 

"The  date,  Miriam,"  he  called.  "Will  you 
please  tell  me  what  day  of  the  month  it 
is?" 

"The  seventh,"  she  answered,  with  difficulty. 

"  The  seventh  ?    The  seventh  of  J  une  ? ' ' 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "Twenty-one 
years,"  he  said,  in  a  shrill  whisper.  "Twenty- 
one  years  ago  to-day." 

Miriam  sat  down  quietly  on  the  other  side, 
of  the  room.  Her  eyes  were  glittering  and  she 
was  moving  her  hands  nervously.  This  dread 
ful  anniversary  had,  for  her,  its  own  particular 
significance.  Upstairs,  Barbara,  light-hearted 
and  hopeful,  was  singing  to  herself  while  she 
pinned  on  the  last  of  the  price  tags  and  built 
her  air-castle.  The  song  came  down  lightly, 


;•. 
ful  Hunt* 


46 


jflower  of  tbe  IDusfc 


Constance 
Tlortb 


yet  discordantly.  It  was  as  though  a  waltz 
should  be  played  at  an  open  grave. 

"Miriam,"  cried  Ambrose  North,  passion 
ately,  "why  did  she  kill  herself?  In  God's 
name,  tell  me  why!" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  murmured  Miriam.  He 
had  asked  her  more  than  fifty  times,  and  she 
always  gave  the  same  answer. 

"  But  you  must  know — someone  must  know! 
A  woman  does  not  die  by  her  own  hand  without 
having  a  reason!  She  was  well  and  strong, 
loved,  taken  care  of  and  petted,  she  had  all  that 
the  world  could  give  her,  and  hosts  of  friends. 
I  was  blind  and  Barbara  was  lame,  but  she 
loved  us  none  the  less.  "  If  I  only  knew  why !" 
he  cried,  miserably;  "Oh,  if  I  only  knew  why!" 

Miriam,  unable  to  bear  more,  went  out  of 
the  room.  She  pressed  her  cold  hands  to  her 
throbbing  temples.  "  I  shall  go  mad,"  she 
muttered.  "How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long!" 

Twenty-one  years  ago  to-day,  Constance 
North  had,  intentionally,  taken  an  overdose 
of  laudanum.  She  had  left  a  note  to  her 
husband  begging  him  to  forgive  her,  and 
thanking  him  for  all  his  kindness  to  her  during 
the  three  years  they  had  lived  together.  She 
had  also  written  a  note  to  Miriam,  asking  her 
to  look  after  the  blind  man  and  to  be  a  mother 
to  Barbara.  Enclosed  were  two  other  letters, 
sealed  with  wax.  One  was  addressed  "To 
My  Daughter,  Barbara.  To  be  opened  on  her 


TEbe  Sepentb  ot  3une  47 


twenty-second  birthday."  Miriam  had  both  wears  of 
the  letters  safely  put  away.  It  was  not  time 
for  Barbara  to  have  hers  and  she  had  never  de 
livered  the  other  to  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed — so  often  does  the  arrogant  power 
of  the  living  deny  the  holiest  wishes  of  the  dead. 

The  whole  scene  came  vividly  back  to  Miriam 
— the  late  afternoon  sun  streaming  in  glory 
from  the  far  hills  into  Constance  North's 
dainty  sitting-room,  upstairs;  the  golden- 
haired  woman,  in  the  full  splendour  of  her 
youth  and  beauty,  lying  upon  the  couch  asleep, 
with  a  smile  of  heavenly  peace  upon  her  lips; 
the  blind  man's  hands  straying  over  her  as 
she  lay  there,  with  his  tears  falling  upon  her 
face,  and  blue-eyed  Barbara,  cooing  and  laugh 
ing  in  her  own  little  bed  in  the  next  room. 

Miriam  had  found  the  notes  on  the  dressing- 
table,  and  had  lied.  She  had  said  there  were 
but  two  when,  in  reality,  there  were  four. 
Two  had  been  read  and  destroyed;  the  other 
two,  with  unbroken  seals,  were  waiting  to  be 
read.  She  was  keeping  the  one  for  Barbara; 
the  other  had  tortured  her  through  all  of  the 
twenty  years. 

The  time  had  passed  when  she  could  have 
delivered  it,  for  the  man  to  whom  it  was  ad 
dressed  was  dead.  But  he  had  survived  Con 
stance  by  nearly  five  years,  and,  at  any  time 
during  those  five  years,  Miriam  might  have 
given  it  to  him,  unseen  and  safely.  She 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Tfoaunting 
iDrcams 


justified  herself  by  dwelling  upon  her  care  of 
Barbara  and  the  blind  man,  and  the  fact  that 
she  would  give  Barbara  her  letter  upon  the 
appointed  day.  Sternly  she  said  to  herself: 
"  I  will  fulfil  one  trust.  I  will  keep  faith  with 
Constance  in  this  one  way,  bitterly  though 
she  has  wronged  me." 

Yet  the  fulfilment  of  one  trust  seemed  not 
to  be  enough,  for  her  sleep  was  haunted  by 
the  pleading  eyes  of  Constance,  asking  mutely 
for  some  boon.  Until  the  man  died,  Constance 
had  come  often,  with  her  hands  outstretched, 
craving  that  which  was  so  little  and  yet  so 
much.  After  his  death,  Constance  still  con 
tinued  to  come,  but  less  often  and  reproach 
fully;  she  seemed  to  ask  for  nothing  now. 

Miriam  had  grown  old,  but  Constance, 
though  sad,  was  always  young.  One  of 
Death's  surpassing  gifts  is  eternal  youth  to 
those  whom  he  claims  too  soon.  In  her  old 
husband's  grieving  heart,  Constance  had  as 
sumed  immortal  beauty  as  well  as  immortal 
youth.  She  was  now  no  older  than  Barbara, 
who  still  sang  heedlessly  upstairs. 

Every  night  of  the  twenty-one  years,  Miriam 
had  closed  her  eyes  in  dread.  When  she 
dreamed  it  was  always  of  Constance — Con 
stance  laughing  or  singing,  Constance  bringing 
"the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land"  to 
the  fine,  grave  face  of  Ambrose  North;  Con 
stance  hugging  little  lame  Barbara  to  her 


ZTbe  Seventb  of  June  49 

breast  with  passionate,  infinitely  pitying  love. 
And,  above  all,  Constance  in  her  grave-clothes, 
dumb,  reproachful,  her  sad  eyes  fixed  on 
Miriam  in  pleading  that  was  almost  prayer. 

"Miriam!  Oh,  Miriam!"  The  blind  man 
in  the  next  room  was  calling  her.  Fearfully, 
she  went  back. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Ambrose  North.  "Sit 
down  near  me,  where  I  can  touch  your  hand. 
How  cold  your  fingers  are!  I  want  to  thank 
you  for  all  you  have  done  for  us — for  my  little 
girl  and  for  me.  You  have  been  so  faithful, 
so  watchful,  so  obedient  to  her  every  wish." 

Miriam  shrank  from  him,  for  the  kindly 
words  stung  like  a  lash  on  flesh  already 
quivering. 

"We  have  always  been  such  good  friends;" 
he  said,  reminiscently.  "Do  you  remember 
how  much  we  were  together  all  that  year, 
until  Constance  came  home  from  school?" 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  Miriam,  in  a 
choking  whisper.  A  surge  of  passionate  hate 
swept  over  her  even  now,  against  the  dead 
woman  whose  pretty  face  had  swerved  Am 
brose  North  from  his  old  allegiance. 

"And  I  shall  not  forget,"  he  answered, 
kindly.  "  I  am  on  the  westward  slope,  Miriam, 
and  have  been,  for  a  long  time.  But  a  few 
more  years — or  months — or  days — as  God 
wills,  and  I  shall  join  her  again,  past  the  sun 
set,  where  she  waits  for  me. 


flower  of  tbe  Busfe 


TToo  Sal> 
for  Songo 


"  I  have  made  things  right  for  you  and  Bar 
bara.  Roger  Austin  has  my  will,  dividing 
everything  I  have  between  you.  I  should 
like  your  share  to  go  to  Barbara,  eventually, 
if  you  can  see  your  way  clear  to  do  it." 

"  Don't ! "  cried  Miriam,  sharply.  The  strain 
was  insupportable. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you,  Sister/'  answered 
the  old  man,  with  gentle  dignity,  "  but  some 
times  it  is  necessary  that  these  things  be  said. 
I  shall  not  speak  of  it  again.  Will  you  give 
me  back  the  check,  please,  and  show  me  where 
to  date  it?  I  shall  date  it  to-morrow — I  can 
not  bear  to  write  down  this  day." 

When  Barbara  came  down,  her  father  was 
sitting  at  the  old  square  piano,  quite  alone, 
improvising  music  that  was  both  beautiful  and 
sad.  He  seldom  touched  the  instrument,  but, 
when  he  did,  wayfarers  in  the  street  paused 
to  listen. 

"Are  you  making  a  song,  Father?"  she 
asked,  softly,  when  the  last  deep  chord  died 
away. 

"No,"  he  sighed;  "I  cannot  make  songs 
to-day." 

"There  is  always  a  song,  Daddy,"  she  re 
minded  him.  "You  told  me  so  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  not  to-day.  Do  you 
know  what  to-day  is,  my  dear?" 

"The  seventh — the  seventh  of  June." 


Ube  Sex>entb  of  June 


"Twenty-one  years  ago  to-day/'  he  said, 
with  an  effort,  "your  dear  mother  took 
her  own  life."  The  last  words  were  almost 
inaudible. 

Barbara  went  to  him  and  put  her  soft  arms 
around  his  neck.  "Daddy!"  she  whispered, 
with  infinite  sympathy,  "Daddy!" 

He  patted  her  arm  gently,  unable  to  speak. 
She  said  no  more,  but  the  voice  and  the  touch 
brought  healing  to  his  pain.  Bone  of  her 
bone  and  flesh  of  her  flesh,  the  daughter  of  the 
dead  Constance  was  thrilled  unspeakably  with 
a  tenderness  that  the  other  had  never  given 
him. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  Ambrose  North, 
slowly  releasing  her.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
— of  her.  Did  I  hear  Aunt  Miriam  go  out?" 

"Yes,  just  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"You  are  almost  twenty-two,  are  you  not, 
Barbara?" 

"Yes,  Daddy." 

"Then  you  are  a  woman  grown.  Your  dear 
mother  was  twenty-two,  when — "  He  choked 
on  the  words. 

"When  she  died,"  whispered  Barbara,  her 
eyes  luminous  with  tears. 

"  Yes,  when  she — died.  I  have  never  known 
why,  Barbara,  unless  it  was  because  I  was 
blind  and  you  were  lame.  But  all  these  years 
there  has  been  a  torturing  doubt  in  my  heart. 
Before  you  were  born,  and  after  my  blindness, 


H  Uorturn 
ing  IDoubt 


jflcnver  of  tbe  JDusfc 


I  fancied  that  a  change  came  over  her.  She 
was  still  tender  and  loving,  but  it  was  not  quite 
in  the  same  way.  Sometimes  I  felt  that  she 
had  ceased  to  love  me.  Do  you  think  my 
blindness  could — ?" 

"Never,  Father,  never."  Barbara's  voice 
rang  out  strong  and  clear.  "That  would  only 
have  made  her  love  you  more." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  Someway  it  com 
forts  me  to  have  you  say  it.  But,  after  you 
came,  I  felt  the  change  even  more  keenly.  You 
have  read  in  the  books,  doubtless,  many  times, 
that  a  child  unites  those  who  bring  it  into  the 
world,  but  I  have  seen,  quite  as  often,  that  it 
divides  them  by  a  gulf  that  is  never  bridged 
again." 

"  Daddy!"  cried  Barbara,  in  pain.  " Did  n't- 
you  want  me?" 

"Want  you?"  he  repeated,  in  a  tone  that 
made  the  words  a  caress.  "I  wanted  you 
always,  and  every  day  I  want  you  more.  I 
am  only  trying  to  say  that  her  love  seemed  to 
lessen,  instead  of  growing,  as  time  went  on.  If 
I  could  know  that  she  died  loving  me,  I  would 
not  ask  why.  If  I  could  know  that  she  died 
loving  me — if  I  were  sure  she  loved  me  still — "- 

"She  did,  Daddy— I  know  she  did." 

" If  I  might  only  be  so  sure!  But  the  ways 
of  the  Everlasting  are  not  our  ways,  and  life 
is  made  up  of  waiting." 

Insensibly    relieved    by    speech,    his    pain- 


Ube  Seventb  ot  June 


53 


gradually  merged  into  quiet  acceptance,  if  not 
resignation.     "Shall    you    marry  some    day,' 
Barbara?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

"  If  the  right  man  comes — otherwise  not." 

"Much  is  written  of  it  in  the  books,  and  I 
know  you  read  a  great  deal,  but  some  things 
in  the  books  are  not  true,  and  many  things 
that  are  true  are  not  written.  They  say  that 
a  man  of  fifty  should  not  marry  a  girl  of  twenty 
and  expect  to  be  happy.  Miriam  was  fifteen- 
years  older  than  Constance  and  at  first  I" 
thought  of  her,  but  when  your  mother  came  • 
from  school,  with  her  blue  eyes  and  golden" 
hair  and  her  pretty,  laughing  ways,  there  was 
but  one  face  in  all  the  world  for  me. 

"We  were  so  happy,   Barbara!    The  firsts 
year  seemed  less  than  a  month,  it  passed  so- 
quickly.     The  books  will  tell  you  that  the  first ' 
joy  dies.     Perhaps  it  does,  but  I  do  not  know; 
because  our  marriage  lasted  only  three  years: 
It  may  be  that,  after  many  years,  the  heart 
does  not  beat  faster  at  the  sound  of  the  be^ 
loved's  step ;  that  the  touch  of  the  loving  hand 
brings  no  answering  clasp. 

"  But  the  divinest  gift  of  marriage  is  this^ 
the  daily,  unconscious  growing  of  two  souls' 
into  one.  Aspirations  and  ambitions  merge,' 
each  with  the  other,  and  love  grows  fast  to  love/ 
Unselfishness  answers  to  unselfishness,  tender 
ness  responds  to  tenderness,  and  the  highest' 
joy  of  each  is  the  well-being  of  the  other.  The 


(Sift  of 
/Carriage 


54 


f  lower  of  tbe  2Dusfc 


n 


words  of  Church  and  State  are  only  the  seal 
of  a  predestined  compact.  Day  by  day  and 
year  by  year  the  bond  becomes  closer  and 
dearer,  until  at  last  the  two  are  one,  and  even 
death  is  no  division. 

"A  grave  has  lain  between  us  for  more  than- 
twenty  years,  but   I  am  still  her  husband- 
there  has  been  no  change.'   And,  if  she  died 
loving  me,  she  is  still  mine.     If  she  died  loving 
me — if — she — died — loving  me 

His  voice  broke  at  the  end,  and  he  went  out; 
murmuring  the  words  to  himself.  Barbara 
watched  him  from  the  window  as  he  opened 
the  gate.  Her  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Flaming  banners  of  sunset  streamed  from 
the  hills  beyond  him,  but  his  soul  could  see 
no  Golden  City  to-night.  He  went  up  the 
road  that  led  to  another  hillside,  where,  in  the 
long,  dreamy  shadows,  the  dwellers  in  God's 
acre  lay  at  peace.  Barbara  guessed  where  he 
was  going  and  her  heart  ached  for  him — kneel 
ing  in  prayer  and  vigil  beside  a  sunken  grave, 
to  ask  of  earth  a  question  to  which  the  answer 
was  lost,  in  heaven — or  in  hell. 


55 


Elotee 

THE  hotel  was  a  long,  low,  rambling  struc 
ture,  with  creaky  floors  and  old-fashioned 
furniture.  But  the  wide  verandas  commanded 
a  glorious  view  of  the  sea,  no  canned  vege 
tables  were  served  at  the  table,  and  there  was 
no  orchestra.  Naturally,  it  was  crowded  from 
June  to  October  with  people  who  earnestly 
desired  quiet  and  were  willing  to  go  far  to  get 
it. 

The  inevitable  row  of  rocking-chairs  swayed 
back  and  forth  on  the  seaward  side.  Most  of 
them  were  empty,  save,  perhaps,  for  the  ghosts 
of  long-dead  gossips  who  had  sat  and  rocked 
and  talked  and  rocked  from  one  meal  to  the 
next.  The  paint  on  the  veranda  was  worn  in 
a  long  series  of  parallel  lines,  slightly  curved, 
but  nobody  cared. 

No  phonograph  broke  upon  the  evening 
stillness  with  an  ear-splitting  din,  no  unholy 
piccolo  sounded  above  the  other  tortured 
instruments,  no  violin  wailed  pitifully  at  its 
inhuman  treatment,  and  the  piano  was  locked. 


B  Summer 
Ibotet 


56 


Slower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


At  seasonable  hours  the  key  might  be  had  at 
the  office  by  those  who  could  prove  themselves 
worthy  of  the  trust,  but  otherwise  quiet 
reigned. 

Miss  Eloise  Wynne  came  down-stairs,  with 
a  book  under  her  arm.  She  was  fresh  as  the 
morning  itself  and  as  full  of  exuberant  vitality. 
She  was  tall  and  straight  and  strong;  her 
copper-coloured  hair  shone  as  though  it  had 
been  burnished,  and  her  tanned  cheeks  had  a 
tint  of  rose.  When  she  entered  the  dining- 
room,  with  a  cheery  ''good-morning"  that 
included  everybody,  she  produced  precisely 
the  effect  of  a  cool  breeze  from  the  sea. 

She  was  thirty,  and  cheerfully  admitted  it 
on  occasion.  "  If  I  don't  look  it,"  she  said, 
smiling,  "people  will  be  surprised,  and  if  I 
do,  there  would  be  no  use  in  denying  it.  Any-' 
how,  I  'm  old  enough  to  go  about  alone."  It 
was  her  wont  to  settle  herself  for  Summer 
or  Winter  in  any  place  she  chose,  with  no 
chaperon  in  sight. 

For  a  week  she  had  been  at  Riverdale-by-the 
Sea,  and  liked  it  on  account  of  the  lack  of 
entertainment.  People  who  lived  there  called 
it  simply  "  Riverdale,"  but  the  manager  of  the 
hotel,  perhaps  to  atone  for  the  missing  orches 
tra  and  canned  vegetables,  added  "by-the- 
Sea"  to  the  name  in  his  modest  advertisements. 

Miss  Wynne,  fortunately,  had  enough  money 
to  enable  her  to  live  the  much-talked-of  "sim- 


lEloise 


57 


pie  life,"  which  is  wildly  impossible  to  the  poor. 
As  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  concern  her 
self  with  the  sordid  and  material,  she  could 
occupy  herself  with  the  finer  things  of  the  soul. 
Just  now,  however,  she  was  deeply  interested 
in  the  material  foundation  of  the  finest  thing 
in  the  world — a  home. 

She  had  taken  the  bizarre  paper  slip  which 
protected  the  even  more  striking  cover  of  a 
recent  popular  novel,  and  adjusted  it  to  a 
bulky  volume  of  very  different  character.  In 
her  chatelaine  bag  she  had  a  pencil  and  a 
note-book,  for  Miss  Eloise  was  sorely  afflicted 
with  the  note-book  habit,  and  had  a  passion  for 
reducing  everything  to  lists.  She  had  lists  of 
things  she  wanted  and  lists  of  things  she  didn't 
want,  which  circumstances  or  well-meaning 
Santa  Clauses  had  forced  upon  her;  little  books 
of  addresses  and  telephone  numbers,  jewels  and 
other  personal  belongings,  and,  finally,  a  cata 
logue  of  her  library  alphabetically  arranged 
by  author  and  title. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  she  went  off 
with  a  long,  swinging  stride  which  filled  her 
small  audience  with  envy  and  admiration. 
Disjointed  remarks,  such  as  "skirt  a  little  too 
short,  but  good  tailor,"  and  "terrible  amount 
of  energy,"  and  "wonder  where  she  's  going," 
followed  her.  These  comments  were  audible, 
had  she  been  listening,  but  she  had  the  gift  of 
keeping  solitude  in  a  crowd. 


fi  paseion 
foe  lists 


flower  of  tbe  Dusft 


JSoofe 


Far  along  the  beach  she  went,  hatless,  her 
blood  singing  with  the  joy  of  life.  A  June 
morning,  the  sea,  youth,  and  the  consciousness 
of  being  loved — for  what  more  could  one  ask? 
The  diamond  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand  sparkled  wonderfully  in  the  sunlight. 
It  was  the  only  ring  she  wore. 

Presently,  she  found  a  warm,  soft  place  be 
hind  a  sand  dune.  She  reared  upon  the  dune 
a  dark  green  parasol  with  a  white  border,  and 
patted  sand  around  the  curved  handle  until 
it  was,  as  she  thought,  firmly  placed.  Then 
she  settled  her  skirts  comfortably  and  opened 
her  book,  for  the  first  time. 

"  It  looks  bad,"  she  mused.  "Wonder  what 
a  carbohydrate  is.  And  proteids — where  do 
you  buy  'em?  Albuminoids — I  've  been  from 
Maine  to  Florida  and  have  never  seen  any. 
They  must  be  germs.  <3j>-<a. » 

"However,"  she  continued,  to  herself,  "I 
have  a  trained  mind,  and  'keeping  ever 
lastingly  at  it  brings  success.'  It  would  be 
strange  if  three  hours  of  hard  study  every  day, 
on  the  book  the  man  in  the  store  said  was  the 
best  ever,  did  n't  produce  some  sort  of  definite 
result.  But,  oh,  how  Allan  would  laugh  at 
me!" 

The  book  fell  on  the  sand,  unheeded.  The 
brown  eyes  looked  out  past  the  blue  surges  to 
some  far  Castle  in  Spain.  Her  thoughts  re 
fused  to  phrase  themselves  in  words,  but  her 


jElofse 


59 


pulses  leaped  with  the  old,  immortal  joy.  The 
sun  had  risen  high  in  the  shining  East  before 
she  returned  to  her  book. 

"This  isn't  work,"  she  sighed  to  herself; 
"away  with  the  dreams." 

Before  long,  she  got  out  her  note-book.  "A 
fresh  fish,"  she  wrote,  "does  not  smell  fishy 
and  its  eyes  are  bright  and  its  gills  red.  A 
tender  chicken  or  turkey  has  a  springy  breast 
bone.  If  you  push  it  down  with  your  finger, 
it  springs  back.  A  leg  of  lamb  has  to  have  the 
tough,  outer  parchment-like  skin  taken  off 
with  a  sharp  knife.  Some  of  the  oil  of  the 
wool  is  in  it  and  makes  it  taste  muttony  and 
bad.  A  lobster  should  always  be  bought 
when  he  is  alive  and  green  and  boiled  at  home. 
Then  you  know  he  is  fresh.  Save  everything 
for  soup." 

"  I  will  go  out  into  the  kitchen,"  mused 
Eloise,  "and  I  will  have  the  air  of  knowing  all 
about  everything.  I  will  say:  'Mary  Ann,  I 
have  ordered  a  lobster  for  you  to  boil.  We 
will  have  a  salad  for  lunch.  And  I  trust  you 
have  saved  everything  that  was  left  last  night 
for  to-night's  soup.'  Mary  Ann  will  be  afraid 
of  me,  and  Allan  will  be  so  proud." 

"  *  I  thought  I  told  you/  continued  Eloise, 
to  herself,  'to  save  all  the  crumbs.  Doctor; 
Conrad  does  not  like  to  have  everything  salt 
and  he  prefers  to  make  the  salad  dressing  him 
self.  Do  not  cook  any  cereal  the  mornings 


ttbe  Hie  of 
Knowing 


6o 


yiower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


a 

Jfroltceomi 
TOUnfc 


we  have  oranges  or  grape-fruit — the  starch  and 
acid  are  likely  to  make  a  disturbance  inside. 
Four  people  are  coming  to  dinner  this  evening. 
I  have  ordered  some  pink  roses  and  we  will 
use  the  pink  candle-shades.  Or,  wait — I  had 
forgotten  that  my  hair  is  red.  Use  the  green 
candle-shades  and  I  will  change  the  roses  to 
white/  ' 

A  frolicsome  little  wind,  which  had  long 
been  ruffling  the  waves  of  Eloise's  copper- 
coloured  hair,  took  the  note-book  out  of  her 
lap  and  laid  it  open  on  the  sand  some  little 
distance  away.  Then,  after  making  merry 
with  the  green  parasol,  it  lifted  it  bodily  by 
its  roots  out  of  the  sand  dune  and  went  gaily 
down  the  beach  with  it. 

Eloise  started  in  pursuit,  but  the  wind  and 
the  parasol  out-distanced  her  easily.  Round 
ing  the  corner  of  another  dune,  she  saw  the 
parasol,  with  all  sails  set,  jauntily  embarked 
toward  Europe.  Turning  away,  disconsolate, 
she  collided  with  a  big  blonde  giant  who  took 
her  into  his  arms,  saying,  "  Never  mind — I  '11 
get  you  another." 

When  the  first  raptures  had  somewhat  sub 
sided,  Eloise  led  him  back  to  the  place  where 
the  parasol  had  started  from.  "When  and 
where  from  and  how  did  you  come?"  she 
asked,  hurriedly  picking  up  her  books. 

"This  morning,  from  yonder  palatial  hotel, 
on  foot,"  he  answered.  "  I  thought  you  'd 


lEloise 


61 


be  out  here  somewhere.  I  did  n't  ask  for  you 
— I  wanted  to  hunt  you  up  myself." 

"But  I  might  have  been  upstairs,"  she  said, 
reproachfully. 

"On  a  morning  like  this?  Not  unless 
you  've  changed  in  the  last  ten  days,  and  you 
have  n't,  except  to  grow  lovelier/' 

"But  why  did  you  come?"  she  asked. 
"Nobody  told  you  that  you  could." 

"Sweet,"  said  Allan,  softly,  possessing  him 
self  of  her  hand,  "did  you  think  I  could  stay 
away  from  you  two  whole  weeks?  Ten  days 
is  the  limit — a  badly  strained  limit  at  that." 

The  colour  surged  into  her  face.  She  was 
radiant,  as  though  with  some  inner  light.  The 
atmosphere  around  her  was  fairly  electric  with 
life  and  youth  and  joy. 

Doctor  Allan  Conrad  was  very  good  to  look 
at.  He  had  tawny  hair  and  kind  brown  eyes, 
a  straight  nose,  and  a  good  firm  chin.  He 
wore  eye-glasses,  and  his  face  might  have 
seemed  severe  had  it  not  been  discredited  by 
his  mouth.  He  was  smooth-shaven,  and  knew 
enough  to  wear  brown  clothes  instead  of  grey. 

Eloise  looked  at  him  approvingly.  Every 
detail  of  his  attire  satisfied  her  fastidious 
sense.  If  he  had  worn  a  diamond  ring  or  a 
conspicuous  tie,  he  might  not  have  occupied 
his  present  proud  position.  His  unfailing  good 
taste  was  a  great  comfort  to  her. 

"How  long  can  you  stay?"  she  inquired. 


IDr.Conrab 


62 


flower  of  tbe  Bus?? 


forgetting 

tbe 

Clock 


"Nice  question,"  he  laughed,  "to  ask  an 
eager  lover  who  has  just  come.  Sounds  a 
good  deal  like  '  Here  's-your-hat-what  's-your- 
hurry?'  Before  I  knew  you,  I  used  to  go  to 
see  a  girl  sometimes  who  always  said,  at  ten 
o'clock:  'I  'm  so  glad  you  came.  When  can 
you  come  again  ?'  The  first  time  she  did  it 
I  told  her  I  could  n't  come  again  until  I  had 
gone  away  this  time." 

"And  afterward?" 

"  I  kept  going  away  earlier  and  earlier,  and 
finally  it  was  so  much  earlier  that  I  went  before 
I  had  come.  If  I  can't  make  a  girl  forget  the 
clock,  I  have  no  call  to  waste  my  valuable  time 
on  her,  have  I  ?" 

Assuming  a  frown  with  difficulty,  Miss 
Wynne  consulted  her  watch.  "Why,  it 's  only 
half-past  eleven,"  she  exclaimed;  "I  thought 
it  was  much  later." 

"You  darling,"  said  the  man,  irrelevantly. 
"What  are  you  reading?"  Before  she  could 
stop  him,  he  had  picked  up  the  book  and  nearly 
choked  in  a  burst  of  unseemly  merriment. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  when  he  could 
speak.  "A  cook  book!  A  classmate  of  mine 
used  to  indulge  himself  in  floral  catalogues 
when  he  wanted  to  rest  his  mind  with  light 
literature,  but  I  never  heard  of  a  cook  book  as 
among  the  'books  for  Summer  reading'  that 
the  booksellers  advertise." 

"Why  not?"  retorted  Eloise,  quickly. 


Blotee 


"  No  real  reason.  Lots  of  worse  things  are 
printed  and  sold  by  thousands,  but,  someway, 
I  can't  seem  to  reconcile  you — and  your  glori 
ous  voice — with  a  cook-book." 

"Allan  Conrad,"  said  Miss  Wynne,  with 
affected  sternness,  "if  you  hadn't  studied 
medicine,  would  you  be  practising  it  now  ?" 

"No,"  admitted  Allan;  "not  with  the  laws 
as  they  are  in  this  State." 

"If  I  had  no  voice  and  had  never  studied 
music,  would  I  be  singing  at  concerts  ?" 

"Not  twice." 

"  If  a  girl  had  never  seen  a  typewriter  and 
did  n't  know  the  first  thing  about  short 
hand,  would  she  apply  for  a  position  as  a 
stenographer?" 

"They  do,"  said  Allan,  gloomily. 

"Don't  dissemble,  please.  My  point  is 
simply  this:  If  every  other  occupation  in  the 
world  demands  some  previous  preparation, 
why  should  n't  a  girl  know  something  about 
housekeeping  and  homemaking  before  she 
undertakes  it  ?" 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  're  not  going  to  cook." 

"  I  am  if  I  want  to,"  announced  Eloise, 
with  authority.  "And,  anyhow,  I  'm  going 
to  know.  Do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  let  some 
peripatetic,  untrained  immigrant  manage  my 
house  for  me?  I  guess  not." 

"  But  cooking  is  n't  theory,"  he  ventured, 
picking  up  the  note-book;  "it's  practice. 


64 


Jflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


1  (Bursts  " 


What  good  is  all  this  going  to  do  you  when 
you  have  no  stove  ?" 

"Don't  you  remember  the  famous  painter 
who  told  inquiring  visitors  that  he  mixed  his 
paints  with  brains  ?  I  am  now  cooking  with 
my  mind.  After  my  mind  learns  to  cook,  my 
hands  will  find  it  simple  enough.  And  some 
time,  when  you  come  in  at  midnight  and  have 
had  no  dinner,  and  the  immigrant  has  long 
since  gone  to  sleep,  you  may  be  glad  to  be  pre 
sented  with  panned  oysters,  piping  hot,  instead 
of  a  can  of  salmon  and  a  can-opener." 

"  Bless  your  heart/'  answered  Allan,  fondly. 
"  It 's  dear  of  you,  and  I  hope  it  '11  work.  I  'm 
starving  this  minute — kiss  me/' 

"  '  Longing  is  divine  compared  with  satiety ' ' 
she   reminded   him,   as   she   yielded.     "How 
could  you  get  away?    Was  nobody  ill?" 

"Nobody  would  have  the  heart  to  be  ill  on 
a  Saturday  in  June,  when  a  doctor's  best  girl 
was  only  fifty  miles  away.  Monday,  I  '11  go 
back  and  put  some  cholera  or  typhoid  germs 
in  the  water  supply,  and  get  nice  and  busy. 
Who  's  up  yonder?"  indicating  the  hotel. 

"Nobody  we  know,  but  very  few  of  the 
guests  have  come,  so  far." 

"  In  all  our  varied  speech,"  commented 
Allan,  "I  know  of  nothing  so  exquisitely 
ironical  as  alluding  to  the  people  who  stop  at 
a  hotel  as  'guests/  In  Mexico,  they  call  them 
'  passengers/  which  is  more  in  keeping  with  the 


Biofse 


life: 


facts.  Fancy  the  feelings  of  a  real  guest  upon 
receiving  a  bill  of  the  usual  proportions.  I 
should  consider  it  a  violation  of  hospitality  if 
a  guest  at  my  house  had  to  pay  three  prices  for 
his  dinner  and  a  tip  besides." 

"  You  always  had  queer  notions, "  remarked 
Eloise,  with  a  sidelong  glance  which  set  his 
heart  to  pounding.  "We  '11  call  them  inmates 
if  you  like  it  better.  As  yet,  there  are  only 
eight  inmates  besides  ourselves,  though  more 
are  coming  next  week.  Two  old  couples,  one 
widow,  one  divorcee,  and  two  spinsters  with 
life-works." 

"  No  galloping  cherubs?  " 

"School  is  n't  out  yet." 

"  I  see.  It  would  n't  be  the  real  thing  unless 
there  were  little  ones  to  gallop  through  the 
corridors  at  six  in  the  morning  and  weep  at 
the  dinner  table.  What  are  the  life-works?" 

"One  is  writing  a  book,  I  understand,  on 
The  Equality  of  the  Sexes.  The  other — oh, 
Allan,  it 's  too  funny." 

"Spring  it,"  he  demanded. 

"  She  's  trying  to  have  cornet-playing  intro 
duced  into  the  public  schools.  She  says  that 
tuberculosis  and  pneumonia  are  caused  by 
insufficient  lung  development,  and  that  cornet- 
playing  will  develop  the  lungs  of  the  rising 
generation.  Fancy  going  by  a  school  during 
the  cornet  hour." 

"  I   don't   know  why  they  should  n't  put 


66 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Bpatbetu 

little 
TOoman 


cornet-playing  into  the  schools,"  he  observed, 
after  a  moment  of  profound  thought.  "  Every 
thing  else  is  there  now.  Why  should  n't  they 
teach  crime,  and  even  make  a  fine  art  of  it?" 

"  If  you  let  her  know  you  're  a  doctor/' 
cautioned  Eloise,  "she'll  corner  you,  and  I 
shall  never  see  you  again.  She  says  that  she 
'hopes,  incidentally,  to  enlist  the  sympathies 
of  the  medical  profession.'  ' 

"  She  's  beginning  at  the  wrong  end.  Cornet 
manufacturers  and  the  people  who  keep  sani 
tariums  and  private  asylums  are  the  co-workers 
she  wants.  1  could  n't  live  through  the  coming 
Winter  were  it  not  for  pneumonia.  It  means 
coal,  and  repairs  for  the  automobile,  and  furs 
for  my  wife — when  I  get  one." 

"Come,"  said  Eloise,  springing  to  her  feet; 
"let 's  go  up  and  get  ready  for  luncheon." 

"Have  you  told  me  all?"  asked  Allan,  "or 
is  there  some  gay  young  troubadour  who  sere 
nades  you  in  the  evening  and  whose  existence 
you  conceal  from  me  for  reasons  of  your  own?" 

"Nary  a  troubadour,"  she  replied.  "I 
have  n't  seen  another  soul  except  a  pathetic 
little  woman  who  came  up  to  the  hotel  yester 
day  afternoon  to  sell  the  most  exquisite  things 
you  ever  saw.  Think  of  offering  hand-made 
lingerie,  of  sheer,  embroidered  lawn  and  batiste 
and  linen,  to  that  crowd!  The  old  ladies 
were  n't  interested,  the  spinsters  sniffed,  the 
widow  wept,  and  only  the  divorcee  took  any 


67 


mat) 


notice  of  it.  The  prices  were  so  ridiculous  that 
I  would  n't  let  her  unpack  the  box.  I  'd  be 
ashamed  to  pay  her  the  price  she  asked.  It 's 
made  by  a  little  lame  girl  up  the  main  road. 
I  'm  to  go  up  there  sometime  next  week." 

"Fairy  godmother?"  asked  Allan,  good- 
naturedly.  He  had  known  Eloise  for  many 
years. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  somewhat  shame 
faced.  "What 's  the  use  of  having  money  if 
you  don't  spend  it  ?" 

They  went  into  the  hotel  together,  utterly 
oblivious  of  the  eight  pairs  of  curious  eyes  that 
were  fastened  upon  them  in  a  frank,  open 
stare.  The  rocking-chairs  scraped  on  the 
veranda  as  they  instinctively  drew  closer 
together.  A  strong  human  interest,  im 
peratively  demanding  immediate  discussion, 
had  come  to  Riverdale-by-the-Sea. 


68 


SHscours 

agtng 
prospects 


M 


VI 

a  letter 

IRIAM  had  come  home  disappointed  and 
secretly  afraid  to  hope  for  any  tangible 
results  from  Miss  Wynne's  promised  visit. 
Nevertheless,  she  told  Barbara. 

"Wouldn't  any  of  them  even  look  at  it, 
Aunty?" 

"One  of  them  would  have  looked  at  it  and 
rumpled  it  so  that  I  'd  have  had  to  iron  it 
again,  but  she  would  n't  have  bought  anything. 
This  young  lady  said  she  was  busy  just  then, 
and  she  wanted  to  come  up  and  look  over  all 
the  things  at  her  leisure.  She  won't  pay  much, 
though,  even  if  she  buys  anything.  She  said 
the  price  was  'ridiculous.'  ' 

"Perhaps  she  meant  it  was  too  low/'  sug 
gested  Barbara. 

"Possibly,"  answered  Miriam.  Her  tone 
indicated  that  it  was  equally  possible  for 
canary  birds  to  play  the  piano,  or  for  ducks 
to  sing. 

"How  does  she  look?"  queried  Barbara. 


H  better 


"Well  enough."  Enthusiasm  was  not  one 
of  Miriam's  attractions. 

"What  did  she  have  on?" 

"White.     Linen,  I  think." 

"Then  she  knows  good  material.  Was  her 
gown  tailor-madec?" 

"Might  have  been.    Why?" 

"Because  if  her  white  linen  gowns  are 
tailored  she  has  money  and  is  used  to  spend 
ing  it  for  clothes.  I  'm  sure  she  meant  the 
price  was  too  low.  Did  she  say  when  she 
was  coming?" 

"  Next  week.     She  did  n't  say  what  day." 

"Then,"  sighed  Barbara,  "all  we  can  do  is 
to  wait." 

"We'll  wait  until  she  comes,  or  has  had 
time  to.  In  the  meantime,  I  'm  going  to  show 
my  quilts  to  those  old  ladies  and  take  down  a 
jar  or  two  of  preserves.  I  wish  you  'd  write 
to  the  people  who  left  orders  last  year,  and 
ask  if  they  want  preserves  or  jam  or  jelly,  or 
pickles,  or  quilts,  or  anything.  It  would  be 
nice  to  get  some  orders  in  before  we  buy  the 
fruit." 

Barbara  put  down  her  book,  asked  for  the 
pen  and  ink,  and  went  cheerfully  to  work,  with 
the  aid  of  Aunt  Miriam's  small  memorandum 
book  which  contained  a  list  of  addresses. 

"What  colour  is  her  hair,  Aunty?"  she 
asked,  as  she  blotted  and  turned  her  first  neat 
page. 


7° 


flower  of  tbe  Busfe 


"A  good  deal  the  colour  of  that  old  copper 
tea-kettle  that  a  woman  paid  six  dollars  for 
once,  do  you  remember?  I  've  always  thought 
she  was  crazy,  for  she  would  n't  even  let  me 
clean  it." 

"And  her  eyes?" 

"Brown  and  big,  with  long  lashes.  She 
looks  well  enough,  and  her  voice  is  pleasant, 
and  I  must  say  she  has  nice  ways.  She 
did  n't  make  me  feel  like  a  peddler,  as  so  many 
of  them  do.  P'raps  she  '11  come,"  admitted 
Miriam,  grudgingly. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  I  'd  love  to  see  her  and 
her  pretty  clothes,  even  if  she  did  n't  buy 
anything."  Barbara  threw  back  a  golden 
braid  impatiently,  wishing  it  were  copper- 
coloured  and  had  smooth,  shiny  waves  in  it, 
instead  of  fluffing  out  like  an  undeserved 
halo. 

While  Barbara  was  writing,  her  father  came 
in  and  sat  down  near  her.  "More  sewing, 
dear  ?"  he  asked,  wistfully. 

"No,  Daddy,  not  this  time.  I  'm  just 
writing  letters." 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  ever  got  any  letters  — 
do  you?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  sometimes.  The  people  at  the 
hotel  come  up  to  call  once  in  a  while,  you 
know,  and  after  they  go  away,  Aunt  Miriam 
and  I  occasionally  exchange  letters  with  them. 
It  's  nice  to  get  letters." 


H  Xettet 


The  old  man's  face  changed.  "Are  you 
lonely,  dear  ?" 

"Lonely?"  repeated  Barbara,  laughing; 
"why  I  don't  even  know  what  the  word  means. 
I  have  you  and  my  books  and  my  sewing  and 
these  letters  to  write,  and  I  can  sit  in  the  win 
dow  and  nod  to  people  who  go  by — how  could 
I  be  lonely,  Daddy?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  dear/' 

"So  I  am,"  returned  the  girl,  trying  hard 
to  make  her  voice  even.  "With  you,  and 
everything  a  girl  could  want,  why  should  n't 
I  be  happy?" 

Miriam  went  out,  closing  the  door  quietly, 
and  the  blind  man  drew  his  chair  very  near  to 
Barbara. 

"  I  dream,"  he  said,  "and  I  keep  on  dreaming 
that  you  can  walk  and  I  can  see.  What  do 
you  suppose  it  means?  I  never  dreamed  it 
before." 

"We  all  have  dreams,  Daddy.  I  've  had 
the  same  one  very  often  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
child.  It 's  about  a  tower  made  of  cologne 
bottles,  with  a  cupola  of  lovely  glass  arches, 
built  on  the  white  sand  by  the  blue  sea.  In 
side  is  a  winding  stairway  hung  with  tapes 
tries,  leading  to  the  cupola  where  the  golden 
bells  are.  There  are  lovely  rooms  on  every 
floor,  and  you  can  stop  wherever  you  please." 

"  It  sounds  like  a  song,"  he  mused. 

"  Perhaps  it  is.    Can't  you  make  one  of  it  ?" 


Dreaming 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


love 


"No — we  each  have  to  make  our  own.  I 
made  one  this  morning." 

lOSt  tl   /Tp        If  I  •• 

Tell  me,  please. 

"It  is  about  love.  When  God  made  the 
world,  He  put  love  in,  and  none  of  it  has  ever 
been  lost.  It  is  simply  transferred  from  one 
person  to  another.  Sometimes  it  takes  a 
different  form,  and  becomes  a  deed,  which,  at 
first,  may  not  look  as  if  it  were  made  of  love, 
but,  in  reality,  is. 

"  Love  blossoms  in  flowers,  sings  in  moving 
waters,  fills  the  forest  with  birds,  and  makes 
all  the  wonderful  music  of  Spring.  It  puts 
the  colour  upon  the  robin's  breast,  scents  the 
orchard  with  far-reaching  drifts  of  bloom,  and 
scatters  the  pink  and  white  petals  over  the 
grass  beneath.  Through  love  the  flower 
changes  to  fruit,  and  the  birds  sing  lullabies  at 
twilight  instead  of  mating  songs. 

"It  is  at  the  root  of  everything  good  in  all 
the  world,  and  where  things  are  wrong,  it  is 
only  because  sometime,  somewhere,  there  has 
not  been  enough  love.  The  balance  has  been 
uneven  and  some  have  had  too  much  while 
others  were  starving  for  it.  As  the  lack  of 
food  stunts  the  body,  so  the  denial  of  love 
warps  the  soul. 

"But  God  has  made  it  so  that  love  given 
must  unfailingly  come  back  an  hundred-fold; 
the  more  we  give,  the  richer  we  are.  And 
Heaven  is  only  a  place  where  the  things  that 


H  OLetter 


73 


have  gone  wrong  here  will  at  last  come  right. 
Is  it  not  so,  Barbara?" 

"Surely,  Daddy." 

"Then,"  he  continued,  anxiously,  "all  my 
loving  must  come  back  to  me  sometime,  some 
where.  I  think  it  will  be  right,  for  God  Him 
self  is  Love." 

The  blind  man's  sensitive  fingers  lovingly 
sought  Barbara's  face.  His  touch  was  a 
caress.  "I  am  sure  you  are  like  your  dear 
mother,"  he  said,  softly.  "If  I  could  know 
that  she  died  loving  me,  and  if  I  could  see  her 
face  again,  just  for  an  instant,  why,  all  the 
years  of  loving,  with  no  answer,  would  be 
fully  repaid." 

"  She  loved  you,  Daddy — I  know  she  did." 

"I  know,  too,  but  not  always.  Sometimes 
the  old,  tormenting  doubt  comes  back  to  me." 

"It  shouldn't — mother  would  never  have 
meant  you  to  doubt  her." 

"  Barbara,"  cried  the  old  man,  with  sudden 
passion,  "if  you  ever  love  a  man,  never  let  him 
doubt  you — always  let  him  be  sure.  There  is 
so  much  in  a  man's  world  that  a  woman  knows 
nothing  of.  When  he  comes  home  at  night, 
tired  beyond  words,  and  sick  to  death  of  the 
world  and  its  ways,  make  him  sure.  When  he 
thinks  himself  defeated,  make  him  sure. 
When  you  see  him  tempted  to  swerve  even  the 
least  from  the  straight  path,  make  him  sure. 
When  the  last  parting  comes,  if  he  is  leaving 


74 


ffiower  of  tbe  Duel? 


H  String 
of  pearls 


you,  give  him  the  certainty  to  take  with  him 
into  his  narrow  house,  and  make  his  last 
sleep  sweet.  And  if  you  are  the  one  to  go 
first,  and  leave  him,  old  and  desolate  and 
stricken,  oh,  Barbara,  make  him  sure  then — 
make  him  very  sure." 

The  girl's  hand  closed  tightly  upon  his.  He 
leaned  over  to  pat  her  cheek  and  stroke  the 
heavy  braids  of  silken  hair.  Then  he  felt  the 
strand  of  beads  around  her  neck. 

"You  have  on  your  mother's  pearls,"  he 
said.  His  fine  old  face  illumined  as  he  touched 
the  tawdry  trinket. 

Barbara  swallowed  the  hard  lump  in  her 
throat.  "  Yes,  Daddy."  They  had  lived  for 
years  upon  that  single  strand  of  large,  perfectly 
matched  pearls  which  Ambrose  North  had 
clasped  around  his  young  wife's  neck  upon 
their  wedding  day. 

"Would  you  like  more  pearls,  dear?  A 
bracelet,  or  a  ring?" 

"  No — these  are  all  I  want." 

"  I  want  to  give  you  a  diamond  ring  some 
day,  Barbara.  Your  mother's  was  buried 
with  her.  It  was  her  engagement  ring." 

"  Perhaps  somebody  will  give  me  an  engage 
ment  ring,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder.  I  don't  want  to  be 
selfish,  dear.  You  are  all  I  have,  but,  if  you 
loved  a  man,  I  would  n't  try  to  keep  you  away 
from  him." 


H  Xetter  75 


"  Prince  Charming  has  n't  come  yet,  Daddy,       »ion« 
so  cheer  up.     I  '11  tell  you  when  he  does." 

Thus  she  turned  the  talk  into  a  happier  vein. 
They  were  laughing  together  like  two  children 
when  Miriam  came  in  to  say  that  supper  was 
ready. 

Afterward,  he  sat  at  the  piano,  improvising 
low,  sweet  chords  that  echoed  back  plaintively 
from  the  dingy  walls.  The  music  was  full  of 
questioning,  of  pleading,  of  longing  so  deep 
that  it  was  almost  prayer.  Barbara  finished 
her  letters  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  while 
Miriam  sat  in  the  dining-room  alone,  asking 
herself  the  old,  torturing  questions,  facing 
her  temptation,  and  bearing  the  old,  terrible 
hunger  of  the  heart  that  hurt  her  like  physical 
pain. 

A  little  before  nine  o'clock,  the  blind  man 
came  to  kiss  Barbara  good-night.  Then  he 
went  up-stairs.  Miriam  came  in  and  talked  a 
few  minutes  of  quilts,  pickles,  and  lingerie,  then 
she,  too,  went  up  to  begin  her  usual  restless 
night. 

Left  alone,  Barbara  discovered  that  she  did 
not  care  to  read.  It  was  too  late  to  begin  work 
upon  the  new  stock  of  linen,  lawn,  and  batiste 
which  had  come  the  day  before,  and  she  lacked 
the  impulse,  in  the  face  of  such  discouraging 
prospects  as  Aunt  Miriam  had  encountered  at 
the  hotel.  Barbara  steadily  refused  to  admit, 
even  to  herself,  that  she  was  discouraged,  but 


76 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


H  Ifgbt  in 
tbc 


she  found  no  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  her 
work. 

She  unfastened  the  front  door,  lighted  a 
candle,  and  set  it  upon  the  sill  of  the  front 
window.  Within  twenty  minutes  Roger  had 
come,  entering  the  house  so  quietly  that 
Barbara  did  not  hear  his  step  and  was  fright 
ened  when  she  saw  him. 

"Don't  scream,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the 
door  leading  into  the  hall.  "  I  'm  not  a  burglar 
—only  a  struggling  young  law  student  with  no 
prospects  and  even  less  hope." 

"I  infer,"  said  Barbara,  "that  the  Bascom 
liver  is  out  of  repair." 

" Correct.  It  seems  absurd,  does  n't  it,  to  be 
affected  by  another  man's  liver  while  you  are 
supremely  unconscious  of  your  own?" 

"There  are  more  things  in  other  people's 
digestions  than  our  philosophy  can  account 
for,"  she  replied,  with  a  wicked  perversion  of 
classic  phrase.  "What  was  the  primary  cause 
of  the  explosion?" 

"  It  was  all  his  own  fault,"  explained  Roger. 
"  I  like  dogs  almost  as  well  as  I  do  people,  but 
it  does  n't  follow  that  dogs  should  mix  so  con 
stantly  with  people  as  they  usually  are  allowed 
to.  I  was  never  in  favour  of  Judge  Bascom's 
bull  pup  keeping  regular  office  hours  with  us, 
but  he  has,  ever  since  the  day  he  waddled  in 
behind  the  Judge  with  a  small  chain  as  the  con 
necting  link.  I  got  so  accustomed  to  his 


H  Xetter  77 


howling  in  the  corner  of  the  office   where  he 

boo& 

was  chained  up  that  I  could  n't  do  my  work 
properly  when  he  was  asleep.  So  all  went 
well  until  the  Judge  decided  to  remove  the 
chain  and  give  the  pup  more  room  to  develop 
himself  in. 

"  I  tried  to  dissuade  him,  but  it  was  no  use. 
I  told  him  he  would  run  away,  and  he  said, 
with  great  dignity,  that  he  did  not  desire  for 
a  pet  anything  which  had  to  be  tied  up  in  order 
to  be  retained.  He  observed  that  the  restrain 
ing  influence  worked  against  the  pet  hood  so 
strongly  as  practically  to  obscure  it." 

"New  word?"  laughed  Barbara. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is  n't  a  gqod  word," 
returned  Roger,  in  defence.  "If  'manhood' 
and  'womanhood'  and  'brotherhood'  and  all 
the  other  'hoods'  are  good  English,  I  see  no 
reason  why  'pethood'  should  n't  be  used  in  the 
same  sense.  The  English  language  needs  a  lot 
of  words  added  to  it  before  it  can  be  called 
complete." 

"One  would  n't  think  so,  judging  by  the  size 
of  the  dictionary.  However,  we  '11  let  it  pass. 
Go  on  with  the  story." 

"Things  have  been  lively  for  a  week  or  more. 
The  pup  has  romped  around  a  good  deal  and 
has  playfully  bitten  a  client  or  two,  but  the 
Judge  has  been  highly  edified  until  to-day. 
Fido  got  an  important  legal  document  which 
the  Judge  had  just  drafted,  and  literally  chewed 


78 


jfiower  of  tbe  HHisfe 


it  to  pulp.  Then  he  swallowed  it,  apparently 
with  great  relish.  I  was  told  to  make  an 
other,  and  my  not  knowing  about  it,  and 
taking  the  liberty  of  asking  a  few  necessary 
questions,  produced  the  fireworks.  It  was  n't 
Fido's  fault,  but  mine." 

"How  is  Fido?"  queried  Barbara,  with 
affected  anxiety. 

"  He  was  well  at  last  accounts,  but  the  docu 
ment  was  long  enough  and  complicated  enough 
to  make  him  very  ill.  1  hope  he  '11  die  of  it 
to-morrow." 

"  Perhaps  he  's  going  to  study  law,  too," 
remarked  Barbara,  "and  believes,  with  Macau- 
lay,  that  'a  page  digested  is  better  than  a  book 
hurriedly  read.'  ' 

"  I  think  that  will  do,  Miss  North.  I  '11  read 
to  you  now,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  would  fain 
improve  myself  instead  of  listening  to  such 
childish  chatter." 

"Perhaps,  if  you  read  to  me  enough,  I  '11 
improve  so  that  even  you  will  enjoy  talking 
to  me,"  she  returned,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 
"What  did  you  bring  over  ?" 

"A  new  book  —  that  is,  one  that  we  've  never 
seen  before.  There  is  a  large  box  of  father's 
books  behind  some  trunks  in  the  attic,  and  1 
never  found  them  until  Sunday,  when  I  was 
rummaging  around  up  there.  I  have  n't  read 
them  —  I  thought  I  'd  make  a  list  of  them  first, 
and  you  can  choose  those  you  'd  like  to  have 


H  Xetter  79 


me  read  to  you.  I  brought  this  little  one  be 
cause  I  was  sure  you  'd  like  it,  after  reading 
Endymion  and  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Keats's  letters  to  Fanny  Brawne." 

The  little  brown  book  was  old  and  its  corners 
were  dog-eared,  but  the  yellowed  pages,  with 
their  record  of  a  deathless  passion,  were  still 
warmly  human  and  alive.  Roger  had  a  deep, 
pleasant  voice,  and  he  read  well.  Quite  apart 
from  the  beauty  of  the  letters,  it  gave  Barbara 
pleasure  to  sit  in  the  firelight  and  watch  his  face. 

He  read  steadily,  pausing  now  and  then  for 
comment,  until  he  was  half-way  through  the 
volume;  then,  as  he  turned  a  page,  a  folded 
paper  fell  out.  He  picked  it  up  curiously. 

"Why,  Barbara,"  he  said,  in  astonishment. 
"  It 's  my  father's  writing." 

"What  is  it— notes?" 

"No,  he  seems  to  have  been  trying  to  write 
a  letter  like  those  in  the  book.  It  is  all  in 
pencil,  with  changes  and  erasures  here  and 
there.  Listen : 

"  'You  are  right,  as  you  always  are,  and  we 
must  never  see  each  other  again.  We  must 
live  near  each  other  for  the  rest  of  our  lives, 
with  that  consciousness  between  us.  We  must 
pass  each  other  on  the  street  and  not  speak 
unless  others  are  with  us;  then  we  must  bow, 
pleasantly,  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 


8o 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusk 


Ube  letter 


" '  I  hope  you  do  not  blame  me  because  I 
went  mad.  I  ask  your  pardon,  and  yet  I  can 
not  say  I  am  sorry.  That  one  hour  of  con 
fession  is  worth  a  lifetime  of  waiting — it  is 
worth  all  the  husks  that  we  are  to  have  hence 
forward  while  we  starve  for  more. 

"  'Through  all  the  years  to  come,  we  shall 
be  separated  by  less  than  a  mile,  yet  the  world 
lies  between  us  and  divides  us  as  by  a  glittering 
sword.  You  will  not  be  unfaithful  to  your, 
pledge,  nor  I  to  mine.  Nothing  is  changed 
there.  It  is  only  that  two  people  chose  to  live 
in  the  starlight  and  bound  themselves  to  it 
eternally,  then  had  one  blinding  glimpse  of 
God's  great  sun. 

"  'But,  Constance,  the  stars  are  the  same 
as  always,  anH  we-rrtust  try  to  forget  that  we 
have  seen  the  sun.  The  little  lights  of  the 
temple  must  be  the  more  faithfully  tended  if 
the  Great  Light  goes  out.  When  the  white 
splendour  fades,  we  must  be  content  with  the 
misty  gold  of  night,  and  not  mind  the  shadows 
nor  the  great  desolate  spaces  where  not  even 
starlight  comes.  Your  star  and  mine  met  for 
an  instant,  then  were  sundered  as  widely  as  the 
poles,  but  the  light  of  each  must  be  kept 
steadfast  and  clear,  because  of  the  other. 

"  '  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  have  the  cour 
age  to  send  this  letter.  Everything  was  said 
when  I  told  you  that  I  love  you,  for  that  one 
word  holds  it  all  and  there  is  nothing  more. 


H  Xetter 


81 


As  you  can  take  your  heart  in  the  hollow  of 
your  hand  and  hold  it,  it  is  so  small  a  thing; 
so  the  one  word  Move'  holds  everything  that 
can  be  said,  or  given,  or  hungered  for,  or 
prayed  for  and  denied. 

"  'And  if,  sometimes,  in  the  starlight,  we 
dream  of  the  sun,  we  must  remember  that 
both  sun  and  stars  are  God's.  Past  the  un 
utterable  leagues  that  divide  us  now,  one  day 
we  shall  meet  again,  purged,  mayhap,  of 
earthly  longing  for  earthly  love. 

"  '  But  Heaven,  for  me,  would  be  the  hour 
I  held  you  close  again.  I  should  ask  nothing 
more  than  to  tell  you  once  more,  face  to  face 
and  heart  to  heart,  the  words  I  write  now: 
I  love  you — I  love  you — I  love  you/  " 

Roger  put  down  the  book  and  stared  fixedly 
at  the  fire.  Barbara's  face  was  very  pale  and 
the  light  had  gone  from  her  eyes. 

"Roger,"  she  said,  in  a  strange  tone,  "Con 
stance  was  my  mother's  name.  Do  you 
think " 

He  was  startled,  for  his  thought  had  not 
gone  so  far  as  her  intuition.  "I — do — not — 
know,"  he  said. 

"They  knew  each  other,"  Barbara  went  on, 
swiftly,  "for  the  two  families  have  always  lived 
here,  in  these  same  two  houses  where  you  and 
I  were  born.  It  was  only  a  step  across  the 
road,  and  they •" 


H 

3Di0cover\? 


82 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usft 


She  choked  back  a  sob.  Something  new  and 
terrible  seemed  to  have  sprung  up  suddenly 
between  her  and  Roger. 

The  blood  beat  hard  in  his  ears  and  his  own 
words  sounded  dull  and  far  away.  "It  is 
dated  June  third,"  he  said. 

"My  mother  died  on  the  seventh/'  said 
Barbara,  slowly,  "by — her — own — hand." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  Then,- 
speaking  of  indifferent  things,  they  tried  to 
get  back  upon  the  old  friendly  footing  again, 
but  failed  miserably.  There  was  a  conscious 
ness  as  of  guilt,  on  either  side. 

Roger  tried  not  to  think  of  it.  Later,  when 
he  was  alone,  he  would  go  over  it  all  and  try 
to  reason  it  out — try  to  discover  if  it  were  true. 
Barbara  did  not  need  to  do  this,  for,  with  a 
woman's  quick  insight,  she  knew. 

Secretly,  too,  both  were  ashamed,  having 
come  unawares  upon  knowledge  that  was  not 
meant  for  them.  Presently,  Roger  went  hom,e, 
and  was  glad  to  be  alone  in  the  free  outer  air; 
but,  long  after  he  was  gone,  Barbara  sat  in  the 
dark,  her  heart  aching  with  the  burden  of  her 
father's  doubt  and  her  dead  mother's  secret. 


T 


VII 

Hn  afternoon  Call 

HE  rap  at  the  Norths'  front  door  was  of 
the  sort  which  would  impel  the  dead  to 


rise  and  answer  it.  Before  the  echo  of  the 
imperative  summons  had  died  away,  Miriam 
had  opened  it  and  admitted  Miss  Mattie. 

"  I  was  sewin'  over  to  my  house,"  announced 
the  visitor,  settling  herself  comfortably,  "and 
I  surmised  as  how  you  might  be  sewin'  over 
here,  so  I  thought  we  might  as  well  set  together 
for  a  spell.  I  believe  in  bein'  neighbourly." 

Barbara  smiled  a  welcome  and  Miriam 
brought  in  a  quilt  which  she  was  binding  by 
hand.  As  she  worked,  she  studied  Miss  Mattie 
furtively,  and  with  an  air  of  detachment. 

"I  come  over  on  the  trail  Roger  has  wore 
in  the  grass,"  continued  Miss  Mattie,  biting 
off  her  thread  with  a  snap.  "  He  's  organised 
himself  into  sort  of  a  travellin'  library,  I  take  it, 
what  with  transportin'  books  at  all  hours  back 
and  forth.  After  I  go  to  bed,  Roger  lets  him 
self  out  and  sneaks  over  here,  carryin'  readin' 
matter  both  ways.  But  land's  sake,"  she 


fflower  of  tbe  SDusfe 


3ewel  of 


chuckled,  "  I  ain't  carin'  what  he  does  after  I 
get  sleepy.  I  was  never  one  to  stay  up  after 
nine  o'clock  for  the  sake  of  entertainment.  If 
there 's  sickness,  or  anythin'  like  that,  of 
course  it 's  a  different  matter. 

"Roger's  pa  was  always  a  great  one  for 
readin',  and  we  've  both  inherited  it  from  him. 
Roger  sits  with  his  books  and  I  sit  with  my" 
paper,  and  we  both  read,  never  sayin'  a  word 
to  each  other,  till  almost  nine  o'clock.  We  're 
what  you  might  call  a  literary  family. 

"  I  'm  just  readin'  a  perfectly  beautiful 
story  called  Margaret  Merriman,  or  the 
Maiden  s  Mad  Marriage.  Margaret  must  have 
been  worth  lookin'  at,  for  she  had  golden  hair 
and  eyes  like  sapphires  and  ruby  lips  and 
pearly  teeth.  I  was  readin'  the  description 
of  her  to  Roger,  and  he  said  she  seemed  to  be 
what  some  people  would  call  'a  jewel  of  a  girl/ 

"Margaret  Merriman's  mother  died  when 
she  was  an  infant  in  arms,  just  like  your  ma-, 
Barbara,  and  left  her  to  her  pa.  Her  pa 
did  n't  marry  again,  though  several  was  settin' 
their  caps  for  him  on  account  of  him  bein' 
young  and  handsome  and  havin'  a  lot  of 
money.  I  suppose  bein'  a  widower  had  some- 
thin'  to  do  with  it,  too.  It  does  beat  all  how 
women  will  run  after  a  widower.  I  suppose 
they  want  a  man  who  's  already  been  trained, 
but,  speakin'  for  myself,  I  've  always  felt  as 
if  I  'd  rather  have  somethin'  fresh  and  do  my 


Hn  Htternoon  Call 


own  trainin' — women's  notions  differ  so  about 
husbands. 

"Just  think  what  it  would  be  to  marry  a 
man,  thinkin'  he  was  all  trained,  and  to  find 
out  that  it  had  been  done  wrong.  You  'd  have 
to  begin  all  over  again,  and  it  'd  be  harder  than  * 
startin'  in  with  absolute  ignorance.  The  man- 
would  get  restless,  too.  When  he  thought  he, 
was  graduated  and  was  about  ready  to  begin 
on  a  post-graduate  course,  he  'd  find  himself 
in  the  kindergarten,  studyin'  with  beads  and 
singin'  about  little  raindrops. 

"Gettin'  an  idea  into  a  man's  head  is  like 
furnishin'  a  room.  If  you  can  once  get  a  piece 
of  furniture  where  you  want  it,  it  can  stay  there 
until  it 's  worn  out  or  busted,  except  for  oc 
casional  dustin'  and  repairin'.  You  can  add 
from  time  to  time  as  you  have  to,  but  if  you 
attempt  to  refurnish  a  room  that 's  all  fur 
nished,  and  do  it  all  at  once,  you  're  bound  to 
make  more  disturbance  than  housecleanin'. 

"It  has  to  be  done  slow  and  careful,  unless 
you  have  a  likin'  for  rows,  and  if  you  're  one 
of  those  kind  of  women  that 's  forever  changin' 
their  minds  about  furniture  and  their  hus 
band's  ideas,  you  're  bound  to  have  a  terrible 
restless  marriage. 

"Roger's  pa  was  fresh  when  I  took  him,  but, 
unbeknownst  to  me,  he  'd  done  his  own  fur 
nishin',  and  the  pieces  was  dreadful  set  and 
hard  to  move.  Some  of  'em  I  slid  out  gently 


Urafnfng 

tmsbanfcs 


86 


jflower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


"Cbe  TRUill 


and  others  took  some  manouverin',  but  steady 
work  tells  on  anythin'.  He  was  thinkin'  as  I 
wanted  him  to  about  most  things,  though, 
when  he  died,  and  that 's  sayin'  a  good  deal,  for 
he  did  n't  die  until  after  we  'd  been  married 
seven  years  and  three  months  and  eighteen 
days.  If  he  was  n't  really  thinkin'  right,  he 
was  pretendin'  to,  and  that 's  enough  to  satisfy 
any  reasonable  woman. 

"Margaret  Merriman's  pa  died  when  she 
was  at  the  tender  age  of  ten,  and  he  left  all  his 
money  to  a  distant  relation  in  trust  for  Mar 
garet,  the  relative  bein'  supposed  to  spend  the 
income  on  her.  If  Margaret  died  before  she 
was  of  age,  the  relative  was  to  keep  it,  and  if., 
she  should  marry  before  she  was  of  age,  the 
relative  was  to  keep  it,  too.  But,  livin'  to- 
eighteen'  and  marryin'  afterwards,  it  was  all' 
to  be  Margaret's,  and  the  relative  was  n't  to 
have  as  much  as  a  two-cent  stamp  with  the) 
mucilage  licked  off. 

"This  relative  was  a  sweet-faced  lady  with* 
a  large  mole  on  her  right  cheek.  Margaret 
used  to  call  her  'Moley,'  when  she  was  mad 
at  her,  which  was  right  frequent.  Her  name 
was  Magdalene  Mather  and  she  'd  been  married 
three  times.  She  was  dreadful  careless  with 
her  husbands  and  had  mislaid  'em  all.  Not 
bein'  able  to  find  'em  again,  she  just  reckoned 
on  their  bein'  dead  and  was  thinkin'  of  mar 
ryin'  some  more. 


an  Hftecnoon  Call 


"Seems  to  me  it 's  a  mistake  for  anybody  to 
marry  more  'n  once.  In  one  of  Roger's  books 
it  says  somethin'  about  a  second  marriage 
bein'  the  triumph  of  hope  over  experience. 
Magdalene  Mather  was  dreadful  hopeful  and 
kept  thinkin'  that  maybe  she  could  get  some 
body  who  would  stay  with  her  without  bein' 
chained  up.  Meanwhile  it  was  to  her  interest 
to  keep  little  Margaret  as  young  as  possible. 

"Margaret  thought  she  was  ten  when  she 
went  to  live  with  Magdalene,  but  she  soon 
learned  that  it  was  a  mistake  and  she  got  to  be 
only  seven  in  less  'n  half  an  hour.  Magdalene 
put  shorter  dresses  on  her  and  kept  her  in 
white  and  gave  her  shoes  without  any  heels, 
and  these  little  short  socks  that  show  a  foot 
or  so  of  bare  leg  and  which  is  indecent,  if 
fashionable. 

"Margaret's  birthdays  kept  gettin'  farther 
and  farther  apart,  and  as  soon  as  the  neigh* 
bours  begun  to  notice  that  Margaret  was  n't 
agin'  like  everybody  else,  why,  Magdalene 
would  just  pack  up  and  go  to  a  new  place. 

"She  didn't  go  to  school,  but  had  private 
teachers,  because  it  was  in  the  will  that  she  was 
to  be  educated  like  a  real  lady.  Any  teacher 
who  thought  Margaret  was  too  far  advanced 
for  her  age  got  fired  the  minute  it  was  spoke  of, 
and  pretty  soon  Margaret  got  onto  it  herself. 
She  used  to  tell  teachers  she  liked  to  say  that 
she  was  very  backward  in  her  studies,  and  tell 


"Keeping 
flfcargaret 


88 


flower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


Ube 
Conductor 


those  she  did  n't  like  that  Aunty  Magdalene 
would  be  dreadful  pleased  to  hear  that  she  was 
improvin'  in  her  readin'  and  'rithmetic  and 
grammar. 

"Meanwhile  Nature  was  workin'  in  Mar 
garet's  interest  and  she  was  growin'  taller  and 
taller  every  day.  The  short  socks  had  to  be 
took  off  because  people  laughed  so,  and  Mag 
dalene  had  to  let  her  braid  her  hair  instead  of 
havin'  it  cut  Dutch  and  tied  with  a  ribbon. 
When  she  was  eighteen,  she  thought  she  was 
thirteen,  and  she  was  wearin'  dresses  that  come 
to  her  shoe  tops,  and  her  hair  in  one  braid  down 
her  back,  and  dreadful  young  hats  and  no 
jewels,  though  her  pa  had  left  her  a  small  trunk 
full  of  rubies  and  diamonds  and  pearls.  Mag 
dalene  was  wearin'  the  jewels  herself.  They 
were  movin'  around  pretty  rapid  about  this 
time,  and  goin'  from  city  to  city  in  order  to 
find  better  teachers  for  'the  dear  child'  as 
Magdalene  used  to  call  her. 

"One  day,  soon  after  they  'd  gone  to  a  new 
city,  Margaret  was  goin'  down  town  to  take 
her  music  lesson.  She  went  alone  because 
Magdalene  was  laid  up  with  a  headache  and 
wanted  the  house  quiet.  When  the  conductor 
come  along  for  the  fare,  Margaret  was  lookin' 
out  of  the  window,  and,  absent-minded  like, 
she  give  him  a  penny  instead  of  a  nickel.  • 

"The  conductor  give  it  back  to  her,  and 
asked  her  if  she  was  so  young  she  could  go  for 


Hn  Htternoon  (Tail 


half  fare,  and  Margaret  says,  right  sharp,  when 
she  give  him  the  nickel,  It  's  not  so  long  since 
I  was  travellin'  on  half-fare.' 

"The  conductor  says:  'I  'd  hate  to  have  been 
hangin'  up  by  the  thumbs  since  you  was/  says 
he.  Of  course  this  made  Margaret  good  and 
mad,  and  she  says  to  the  conductor,  '  How  old 
do  you  think  I  am?' 

"The  conductor  says:  'I  ain't  paid  to  think 
durin'  union  hours,  but  I  imagine  that  you 
ain't  old  enough  to  lie  about  your  age.'  • 

"Just  then  an  old  woman  with  a  green  parrot 
in  a  big  cage  fell  off  the  car  while  she  was 
gettin'  off  backwards  as  usual,  and  Margaret 
did  n't  have  no  more  chance  to  fight  with  the 
conductor.  She  saw,  however,  that  he  was 
terrible  good  lookin' — like  the  dummy  in  the 
tailor's  window.  It  says  in  the  story  that 
'Ronald  Macdonald' — that  was  his  name- 
was  as  handsome  as  a  young  Greek  god  and, 
though  lowly  in  station,  he  would  have 
adorned  a  title  had  it  been  his.' 

"Margaret  got  to  doin'  some  thinkin'  about 
herself,  and  wonderin'  why  it  was  she  did  n't 
seem  to  age  none.  And  whenever  she  hap 
pened  to  get  onto  Ronald  Macdonald's  car, 
she  noticed  that  he  was  awful  polite  and  chival 
rous  to  women.  He  waited  patiently  when 
any  two  of  'em  was  decidin'  who  was  to  pay 
the  fare  and  fmdin'  their  purses,  and  sayin', 
'You  must  let  me  pay  next  time,'  and  he  would 


IRonalb 


90  flower  of  tbe 


fine        tickle  a  cryin'  baby  under  the  chin  and  make 

Manners       jt  biU  ancj  CQO  jike  a  bird> 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  baby  bill  ?  I  never  did 
neither,  but  that  's  what  it  said  in  the  paper: 
I  suppose  it  has  some  reference  to  the  expense 
of  their  comin'  and  their  keep  through  the 
whoopin'  cough  stage  and  the  measles,  and 
so  on.  There  don't  neither  of  you  know  no- 
thin*  about  it  'cause  you  ain't  married,  but 
when  Roger  come,  his  pa  was  obliged  to  mort 
gage  the  house,  and  the  mortgage  did  n't  get 
took  of?  until  Roger  was  out  of  dresses  and 
goin'  to  school  and  beginnin'  to  write  with  ink. 

"Let  me  see  —  what  was  I  talkin'  about? 
Oh,  yes  —  Ronald  Macdonald's  fine  manners. 
When  a  woman  give  him  five  pennies  instead  of 
a  nickel,  he  was  always  just  as  polite  to  her  as 
he  v/as  to  anybody,  and  would  help  her  off 
the  car  and  carry  her  bundles  to  the  corner  for 
her,  and  everything  like  that.  Of  course 
Margaret  could  n't  help  noticin'  this  and  likin' 
him  for  it  though  she  was  still  mad  at  him  for 
what  he  said  about  her  age. 

"One  morning  Margaret  give  him  a  quarter 
so  's  he  'd  have  to  make  change,  and  while  he 
was  doin'  it,  she  says  to  him,  '  How  nice  it  must 
be  to  ride  all  day  without  payin'  for  it.' 

"  '  I  'm  under  age,'  says  Ronald  Macdonald, 
with  a  smile  that  showed  all  his  beautiful  teeth 
and  his  ruby  lips  under  his  black  waxed 
mustache. 


Hn  Hfternoon  Call 


"  'Get  out/  says  Margaret,  surprised. 

"  '  I  am,  though/  says  Ronald,  confiden 
tially.  '  I  'm  just  nineteen.  How  old  are  you  ?' 

"  'Thirteen/   says  Margaret,  softly. 

"  '  Don't  renig/  says  Ronald.  '  I  think 
we  're  pretty  near  of  an  age/ 

"When  Margaret  got  home,  she  looked  up 
'renig'  in  the  dictionary,  but  it  was  n't  there. 
She  was  too  smart  to  ask  Magdalene,  but  she 
kept  on  thinkin'. 

"One  day,  while  she  was  goin'  down  in  the 
car,  two  men  came  in  and  sat  by  her.  They 
was  chance  acquaintances,  it  seemed,  havin' 
just  met  at  the  hotel.  '  Your  face  is  terrible 
familiar  to  me/  one  of  the  men  said.  '  I  've 
seen  you  before,  or  your  picture,  or  something, 
somewhere.  Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  your 
picture  is  hung  up  in  my  last  wife's  boudoir/ 

"  'Good  God/  says  the  other  man,  turnin' 
as  pale  as  death,  '  did  you  marry  Magdalene 
Mather,  too?' 

"  '  I  did/  says  the  first  man. 

"  'Then,  brother/  says  the  second  man, 
'let  us  get  off  at  the  next  corner  and  go  and 
drown  our  mutual  sorrow  in  drink/ 

"After  they  got  off,  Margaret  went  out  to 
Ronald,  and  she  says  to  him:  ' There  goes  two 
of  my  aunt's  husbands.  She  's  had  three,  and 
there  's  two  of  'em,  right  there/ 

"  'Well/  says  Ronald,  'if  Aunty  ain't  got 
a  death  certificate  and  two  or  three  divorces 


Cbance 
Bcquaint: 

ancc-5 


92 


flower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


of  put  away  somewhere,  she  stands  right  in  line 
to  get  canned  for  a  few  years  for  bigamy. 
You  don't  look  like  you  had  an  aunt  that  was 
a  trigamist,'  says  he. 

"Margaret  did  n't  understand  much  of  this, 
but  she  still  kept  thinkin'.  One  day  while 
Magdalene  was  at  an  afternoon  reception, 
wearin'  all  of  Margaret's  jewels,  Margaret 
looked  all  through  her  private  belongings  to 
see  if  she  could  find  any  divorces,  and  she 
come  on  a  family  Bible  with  the  date  of  her 
birth  in  it,  and  her  father's  will. 

"Soon,  she  understands  the  whole  game, 
and  by  doin'  a  small  sum  in  subtraction,  she 
sees  that  she  is  goin'  on  nineteen  now.  She  's 
afraid  to  leave  the  proofs  in  the  house  over 
night,  so  she  wraps  'em  up  in  a  newspaper,  and 
flies  with  'em  to  her  only  friend  Ronald  Mac- 
donald,  and  asks  him  to  keep  'em  for  her  until 
she  comes  after  'em.  He  says  he  will  guard 
them  with  his  life. 

"When  Margaret  goes  back  after  them, 
havin'  decided  to  face  her  aunt  and  demand 
her  inheritance,  Ronald  has  already  read  'em, 
but  of  course  he  don't  let  on  that  he  has.  He 
convinces  her  that  she  ought  to  get  married 
before  she  faces  her  aunt,  so  that  a  husband's 
strong  arm  will  be  at  hand  to  defend  her 
through  the  terrible  ordeal. 

"Margaret  thinks  she  sees  a  way  out,  for 
she  has  been  studyin'  up  on  law  in  the  mean- 


Hit  Hfternoon  Call  93 

time,  and  she  remembers  how  Ronald  has  told 
her  he  is  under  age,  and  she  knows  the  mar 
riage  won't  be  legal,  but  will  serve  to  deceive 
her  aunt. 

"So  she  flies  with  him  and  they  are  married, 
and  then  when  they  confront  Magdalene  with 
the  will,  and  the  family  Bible  and  their  mar 
riage  certificate,  and  tell  her  she  is  a  trigamist, 
and  they  will  make  trouble  for  her  if  she 
don't  do  right  by  'em,  Magdalene  sobs  out, 
'Oh,  Heaven,  I  am  lost!'  and  falls  in  a  dead 
faint  from  which  she  don't  come  out  for  six 
weeks. 

"In  the  meantime,  Margaret  has  thanked 
Ronald  Macdonald  for  his  great  kindness,  and 
says  he  can  go  now,  as  the  marriage  ain't  legal, 
he  bein'  under  age  and  not  havin'  his  parents' 
consent.  Ronald  gives  a  long,  loud  laugh  and 
then  he  digs  up  his  family  Bible  and  shows 
Margaret  how  he  is  almost  twenty-five  and 
old  enough  to  be  married,  and  that  women 
have  no  patent  on  lyin'  about  their  ages,  and 
that  he  is  not  going  away. 

"Margaret  swoons,  and  when  she  comes  to, 
she  finds  that  Ronald  has  resigned  his  job  as 
a  street-car  conductor,  and  has  bought  some 
fine  clothes  on  her  credit,  and  is  prepared  to 
live  happy  ever  afterward.  He  bids  eternal 
farewell  to  work  in  a  long  and  impassioned 
speech  that 's  so  full  of  fine  language  that  it 
would  do  credit  to  a  minister,  and  there  Mar- 


94 


jflowcr  of  tbc  Busfc 


tbe 


garet  is,  in  a  trap  of  her  own  makin',  with  a 
husband  to  take  care  of  her  money  instead  of 
an  aunt.  Next  week,  I  '11  know  more  about  how 
it  turns  out,  but  that 's  as  far  as  I  've  got 
now.  Ain't  it  a  perfectly  beautiful  story?" 

Miriam  muttered  some  sort  of  answer,  but 
Barbara  smiled.  "  It  is  very  interesting,"  she 
said,  kindly.  "  I  've  never  read  anything  like 
it." 

"  It 's  a  lot  better  'n  the  books  you  and  Roger 
waste  your  time  over,"  returned  the  guest, 
much  gratified;  "but  I  can't  lend  you  the 
papers,  cause  there  's  five  waitin'  after  the 
postmaster's  wife,  and  goodness  knows  how 
many  of  them  has  promised  others.  I  don't 
mind  runnin'  over  once  in  a  while,  though, 
and  tellin'  you  about  'em  while  I  sew. 

"It  keeps  'em  fresh  in  my  memory,"  she 
added,  happily,  "and  Roger  is  so  busy  with  his 
law  books  he  don't  have  time  to  listen  to  'em 
except  at  supper.  He  reads  law  every  evening 
now,  and  he  did  n't  used  to.  Guess  he  ain't 
wasting  so  much  time  as  he  was.  Been  down 
to  the  hotel  yet  ?"  she  asked,  inclining  her  head 
toward  Miriam. 

"Once,"  answered  Miriam,  reluctantly. 

"There  ain't  many  come  yet,"  the  post 
master's  wife  tells  me.  "There's  a  young 
lady  at  the  hotel  named  Miss  Eloise  Wynne, 
and  every  day  but  Saturday  she  gets  a  letter 
from  the  city,  addressed  in  a  man's  writin'. 


Hn  Httcrnoon  Call  95 

And  every  afternoon,  when  the  boy  brings  the 
hotel  mail  down  to  go  out  on  the  night  train, 
there 's  a  big  white  square  envelope  in  a 
woman's  writin'  addressed  to  Doctor  Allan 
Conrad,  some  place  in  the  city.  The  envelope 
smells  sweet,  but  the  writin'  is  dreadful  big- 
and  sploshy-lookin'.  Know  anything  about 
her?"  Miss  Mattie  gazed  sharply  at  Miriam 
over  her  spectacles. 

"No,"  returned  Miriam,  decisively. 

"Thought  maybe  you  would.  Anyhow,  you 
don't  need  to  be  so  sharp  about  it,  cause  there  's 
no  harm  in  askin'  a  civil  question.  My  mother 
always  taught  me  that  a  civil  question  called 
for  a  civil  answer.  I  should  think,  from  the 
letters  and  all,  that  he  was  her  steady  com 
pany,  should  n't  you?" 

"It's  possible,"  assented  Barbara,  seeing 
that  Miriam  did  not  intend  to  reply. 

"There  's  some  talk  at  the  sewin'  circle  of 
gettin'  you  one  of  them  hand  sewin'  machines," 
continued  Miss  Mattie,  "so's  you  could  sew 
more  and  better." 

Barbara  flushed  painfully.  "Thank  you," 
she  answered,  "but  I  could  n't  use  it.  I  much 
prefer  to  do  all  my  work  by  hand." 

"All  right,"  assented  Miss  Mattie,  good- 
humouredly.  "  It  ain't  our  idea  to  force  a 
sewin'  machine  onto  anybody  that  don't  want 
it.  We  can  use  some  of  the  money  in  gettin' 
a  door-mat  for  the  front  door  of  the  church. 


96 


fflower  of  tbe  IDusfc 


And,  if  I  was  you,  I  would  n't  let  my  pa  run 
around  so  much  by  himself.  If  he  wants  to 
borrow  a  dog  to  go  with  him,  Roger  would  be 
willin'  to  lend  him  Judge  Bascom's  Fido.  If 
the  Judge  was  n't  willin',  Roger  would  try 
to  persuade  him.  Lendin'  Fido  would  make 
law  easier  for  Roger  and  be  a  great  help  to 
your  pa. 

"  I  must  go,  now,  and  get  supper.  Good 
bye.  I  've  enjoyed  my  visit  ever  so  much. 
Come  over  sometime,  Miriam — you  ain't  very 
sociable.  Good-bye." 

The  two  women  watched  Miss  Mattie  scud 
ding  blithely  over  the  trail  which,  as  she  said, 
Roger  had  worn  in  the  grass.  Miriam  looked 
after  her  gloomily,  but  Barbara  was  laughing. 

"Don't  look  so  cross,  Aunty,"  chided  Bar 
bara.  "No  one  ever  came  here  who  was  so 
easy  to  entertain." 

"Humph,"  grunted  Miriam,  and  went  out. 

But  even  Barbara  sighed  in  relief  when  she 
was  left  alone.  She  understood  some  of 
Roger's  difficulties  of  which  he  never  spoke, 
and  realised  that  the  much-maligned  "  Bascom 
liver"  could  not  be  held  responsible  for  all  his 
discontent. 

She  wondered  what  Roger's  father  had  been 
like,  and  did  not  wonder  that  he  was  unhappy, 
if  his  nature  was  in  any  way  akin  to  his  son's. 
But  her  mother?  How  could  she  have  failed 
to  appreciate  the  beautiful  old  father  whom 


Hn  Hfternoon  Call 


97 


Barbara  loved  with  all  the  passion  and  strength 
of  her  young  heart! 

"  He  must  n't  know,"  said  Barbara  to  her 
self,  for  the  hundredth  time.  "  Father  must 
never  know." 


TTbe 
Secret 


98 


Ubc 

postponed 
Diaft 


VIII  j 

a  fair?  (Bobmotbcr     * 

i 

AS  cool  and  fresh  as  the  June  morning  of 
which  she  seemed  a  veritable  part,  Miss 
Eloise  Wynne,  immaculately  clad  in  white 
linen,  opened  the  little  grey  gate.  It  was  a 
week  later  than  she  had  promised  to  come, 
but  she  had  not  been  idle,  and  considered  her 
self  justified  for  the  delay. 

Miriam  opened  the  door  for  her  and  intn> 
duced  Barbara.  Eloise  smiled  radiantly  as 
she  offered  a  smooth,  well-kept  hand.  "  I 
know  I  'm  late,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  you  '11 
forgive  me  for  it  a  little  later  on.  I  want  to 
see  all  the  lingerie — every  piece  you  have  to 
sell." 

"Would  you  mind  coming  up-stairs?"  asked 
Barbara. 

"No,  indeed." 

The  two  went  up,  Barbara  slowly  leading 
the  way.  Miriam  remained  downstairs  to 
make  sure  that  the  blind  man  did  not  come  in 
unexpectedly  and  overhear  things  which  he 
would  be  much  happier  not  to  know. 


i  fairs  (Bofcmotber 


"  What  a  lot  of  it,"  Eloise  was  saying.  "  And 
what  a  wonderful  old  chest." 

Trembling  with  excitement,  Barbara  spread 
forth  her  dainty  wares.  Eloise  was  watching 
her  narrowly,  and,  with  womanly  intuition, 
saw  the  dire  need  and  the  courageous  spirit 
struggling  against  it. 

"Just  a  minute,  please,"  said  Barbara;  "  I  'd 
better  tell  you  now.  My  father  is  blind  and  he 
does  not  know  we  are  poor,  nor  that  I  make 
these  things  to  sell.  He  thinks  that  they  are 
for  myself  and  that  I  am  very  vain.  So,  if  he 
should  come  home  while  you  are  here,  please 
do  not  spoil  our  little  deceit." 

Barbara  lifted  her  luminous  blue  eyes  to 
Eloise  and  smiled.  It  was  a  brave  little  smile 
without  a  hint  of  self-pity,  and  it  went  straight 
to  the  older  woman's  heart. 

"  I  '11  be  careful,"  said  Eloise.  ••  I  think  it'  s 
dear  of  you  ." 

"  Now,  "  said  Barbara,  stooping  to  peer  into 
the  corners  of  the  deep  chest,  "  I  think  that 's 
all."  She  began,  hurriedly,  to  price  everything 
as  she  passed  it  to  Eloise,  giving  the  highest 
price  each  time.  When  she  had  finished,  she 
was  amazed  at  Miss  Wynne's  face — it  was  so 
full  of  resentment. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Eloise,  in 
a  queer  voice,  "that  you  are  asking  that  for 
these?" 

The  blue  eyes  threatened  to  overflow,  but 


"CClaree 


IOO 


Slower  of  tbe  H>usfe 


fMijbcr 
prices 


Barbara  straightened  herself  proudly.  "It 
is  all  hand  work,"  she  said,  with  quiet  dignity, 
"and  the  material  is  the  very  best.  I  could 
not  possibly  afford  to  sell  it  for  less/' 

"You  goose,"  laughed  Eloise,  "you  have 
misunderstood  me.  There  is  not  a  thing  here 
that  is  not  worth  at  least  a  third  more  than 
you  are  asking  for  it.  Give  me  a  pencil  and 
paper  and  some  pins." 

Barbara  obeyed,  wondering  what  this  beau 
tiful  visitor  would  do  next.  Eloise  took  up 
every  garment  and  examined  it  critically. 
Then  she  made  a  new  price  tag  and  pinned  it 
over  the  old  one.  She  advanced  even  the 
plainest  garments  at  least  a  third,  the  more 
elaborate  ones  were  doubled,  and  some  of  the 
embroidered  things  were  even  tripled  in  price. 
When  she  came  to  the  shirtwaist  patterns, 
exquisitely  embroidered  upon  sheerest  hand 
kerchief  linen,  she  shamelessly  multiplied  the 
price  by  four  and  pinned  the  new  tag  on. 

"Oh,"  gasped  Barbara;  "nobody  will  ever 
pay  that  much  for  things  to  wear." 

"Somebody  is  going  to  right  now,"  an 
nounced  Eloise,  with  decision.  "  I  '11  take  this, 
and  this,  and  this,"  she  went  on,  rapidly 
choosing,  "and  these,  and  these,  and  this. 
I  '11  take  those  four  for  a  friend  of  mine  who 
is  going  to  be  married  next  week — this  solves 
the  eternal  problem  of  wedding-presents — and 
all  of  these  for  next  Santa  Glaus  time.  . 


H 


Gofcmotber 


101 


"  I  can  use  all  the  handkerchiefs,  and  every 
pin-cushion  cover  and  corsage-pad  you  've 
made.  Please  don't  sell  anything  else  until 
I  Ve  heard  from  some  more  of  my  friends  to 
whom  I  have  already  written.  And  you  're 
not  to  offer  one  of  these  exquisite  things  to 
those  unappreciative  people  at  the  hotel,  for 
I  have  a  letter  from  a  friend  who  is  on  the 
Board  of  Directors  of  the  Woman's  Exchange, 
and  got  a  chance  for  you  to  sell  there.  How 
long  have  you  been  doing  this?" 

"Seven  or  eight  years,"  murmured  Barbara. 
Her  senses  were  so  confused  that  the  room 
seemed  to  be  whirling  and  her  face  was  almost 
as  white  as  the  lingerie. 

"And  those  women  at  the  hotel  would  really 
buy  these  things  at  such  ridiculous  prices?" 

"Not  often,"  answered  Barbara,  trying  to 
smile.  "  They  would  not  pay  so  much.  Some 
times  we  had  to  sell  for  very  little  more  than 
the  cost  of  the  material.  One  woman  said 
we  ought  not  to  expect  so  much  for  things  that 
were  not  made  with  a  sewing-machine,  but  of 
course,  Aunt  Miriam  had  been  to  the  city  and 
she  knew  that  hand  work  was  worth  more." 

"  I  wish  I  'd  been  there,"  remarked  Eloise. 
There  was  a  look  around  her  mouth  which 
would  have  boded  no  good  to  anybody  if  she 
had.  "When  I  see  what  brutes  women  can 
be,  sometimes  I  am  ashamed  because  I  am  a 
woman." 


In  a 

TRUbfrl  ot" 
Confus 


102 


flower  of  tbe  Busfc 


practfca 
•fcelp 


"And,"  returned  Barbara,  softly,  "when  I 
see  what  good  angels  women  can  be,  "it  makes 
me  proud  to  be  a  woman/' 

"Where  do  you  get  your  material?''  asked 
Eloise,  quickly. 

Barbara  named  the  large  department  store 
where  Aunt  Miriam  bought  linen,  lawn,  batiste, 
lace,  patterns,  and  incidentally  managed  to 
absorb  ideas. 

"  I  see  I  'm  needed  in  Riverdale-by-the-Sea," 
observed  Miss  Wynne.  "I  can  arrange  for 
you  to  buy  all  you  want  at  the  lowest  whole 
sale  price." 

"Would  it  save  anything?"  asked  Barbara, 
doubtfully. 

"Would  it?"  repeated  Eloise, smiling.  "Just 
wait  and  see.  After  I  've  written  about  that 
and  had  some  samples  sent  to  you,  we  '11  talk 
over  half  a  dozen  or  more  complete  sets  of 
lingerie  for  me,  and  some  more  shirtwaists. 
Is  there  a  pen  downstairs  ?  I  want  to  write  a 
check  for  you." 

When  they  went  into  the  living-room,  Bar 
bara's  cheeks  were  burning  with  excitement 
and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars.  When  she  took 
the  check,  which  Eloise  wrote  with  an  accus 
tomed  air,  she  could  scarcely  speak,  but  man 
aged  to  stammer  out,  "Thank  you." 

"You  needn't,"  said  Eloise,  coolly,  "for 
I  'm  only  buying  what  I  want  at  a  price  I  con 
sider  very  reasonable  and  fair.  If  you  '11  get 


H  ffairp  (Bofcmotber  103 

some  samples  of  your  work  ready,  I  '11  send 
up  for  them,  and  hurry  them  on  to  my  friend 
who  is  to  put  them  into  the  Woman's  Exchange. 
And  please  don't  sell  anything  more  just  now. 
I  've  just  thought  of  a  friend  whose  daughter 
is  going  to  be  married  soon,  and  she  may  want 
me  to  select  some  things  for  her." 

"  You  're  a  fairy  godmother,"  said  Barbara. 
"This  morning  we  were  poor  and  discouraged. 
You  came  in  and  waved  your  wand,  and  now 
we  are  rich.  I  have  heart  for  anything  now." 

"  You  are  always  rich  while  you  have  cour 
age,  and  without  it  Croesus  himself  would  be 
poor.  It 's  not  the  circumstance,  remember — 
it  's  the  way  you  meet  it." 

"  I  know,"  said  Barbara,  but  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  of  gratitude,  nevertheless. 

Ambrose  North  came  in  from  the  street,  and 
immediately  felt  the  presence  of  a  stranger  in 
the  room.  "Who  is  here?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  Miss  Wynne,  Father.  She  is  stop 
ping  at  the  hotel  and  came  up  to  call." 

The  old  man  bowed  in  courtly  fashion  over 
the  young  woman's  hand.  "We  are  glad  to 
see  you,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  am  blind,  but  I 
can  see  with  my  soul." 

"That  is  the  true  sight,"  returned  Eloise. 
Her  big  brown  eyes  were  soft  with  pity. 

"Have  many  of  the  guests  come?"  he 
inquired. 

"I  have  a  friend,"  laughed  Eloise,  "who 


I04 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


says  it  is  wrong  to  call  people  'guests'  when 
1  they  are  stopping  at  a  hotel.  He  insists  that 
'inmates'  is  a  much  better  word." 

"  He  is  not  far  from  right,"  said  the  old  man, 
smiling.  "Is  he  there  now?" 

"No,  he  comes  down  Saturday  mornings 
and  stays  until  Monday  morning.  That  is  all 
the  vacation  he  allows  himself.  You  are  for 
tunate  to  live  here,"  she  added,  kindly.  "I 
do  not  know  of  a  more  beautiful  place." 

"Nor  I.  To  us  —  to  me,  especially  —  it  is 
hallowed  by  memories.  We  —  you  will  stay  to 
luncheon,  will  you  not,  Miss  Wynne?" 

Eloise  glanced  quickly  at  Barbara.  "  If  you 
only  would,"  she  said. 

"  If  you  really  want  me,"  said  Eloise,  "  I  'd 
love  to."  She  took  off  her  hat  —  a  white  one 
trimmed  with  lilacs  —  and  smoothed  the  waves 
in  her  copper-coloured  hair.  Barbara  took 
her  crutches  and  went  out,  very  quietly,  to 
help  Aunt  Miriam  prepare  for  the  guest. 

When  the  kitchen  door  was  safely  closed, 
Barbara's  joy  bubbled  into  speech.  "  Oh,  Aunt 
Miriam,"  she  cried  ;  "she  's  bought  nearly  every 
thing  I  had  and  paid  almost  double  price  for 
it.  She  's  already  arranged  for  me  to  sell  at  the 
Woman's  Exchange  in  the  city,  and  she  is 
going  to  write  to  some  of  her  friends  about  the 
things  I  have  left.  She  's  going  to  arrange  for 
me  to  get  all  my  material  at  the  lowest  whole 
sale  price,  and  she  's  ordered  six  complete 


H  ffafrp  (Bofcmotber 


sets  of  lingerie  for  herself.  She  wants  some 
more  shirtwaists,  too.  Oh,  Aunt  Miriam,  do 
you  think  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end  ?" 

"Has  she  paid  you?"  queried  Miriam, 
gravely. 

"Indeed  she  has." 

"Then  it  probably  is."* 

Miriam  was  not  a  woman  easily  to  be  af 
fected  by  joy,  but  the  hard  lines  of  her  face 
softened  perceptibly.  "Show  her  the  quilts/' 
she  suggested. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Miriam,  I  'd  be  ashamed  to,  to 
day,  when  she  's  bought  so  much.  She  '11  be 
coming  up  again  before  long — she  said  so. 
And  father  's  asked  her  to  luncheon." 

"Just  like  him,"  commented  Miriam,  with 
a  sigh.  "  He  always  suffered  from  hospitality. 
I  '11  have  to  go  to  the  store." 

"  No,  you  won't,  Aunty — she  's  not  that 
sort.  We  '11  give  her  the  best  we  have,  with  a 
welcome  thrown  in." 

If  Eloise  thought  it  strange  for  one  end  of  the 
table  to  be  set  with  solid  silver,  heavy  damask, 
and  fine  china,  while  the  other  end,  where  she 
and  the  two  women  of  the  house  sat,  was  pain 
fully  different,  she  gave  no  sign  of  it  in  look  or 
speech.  The  humble  fare  might  have  been 
the  finest  banquet  so  far  as  she  Was  concerned. 
She  fitted  herself  to  their  ways  without  ap 
parent  effort;  there  was  no  awkwardness  nor 
feeling  of  strangeness.  She  might  have  been 


TTbe  See 
ICle  Tbavt 


106 


flower  of  tbe  Dusk 


Conversas 
tion 


a  life-long  friend  of  the  family,  instead  of  a 
passing  acquaintance  who  had  come  to  buy 
lingerie. 

As  she  ate,  she  talked.  It  was  not  aimless 
chatter,  but  the  rare  gift  of  conversation.  She 
drew  them  all  out  and  made  them  talk,  too. 
Even  Miriam  relaxed  and  said  something  more 
than  "yes"  and  "no." 

"What  delicious  preserves,"  said  Eloise. 
"May  I  have  some  more,  please?  Where  do 
you  get  them  ?" 

"I  make  them,"  answered  Miriam,  the  dull 
red  rising  in  her  cheeks.  She  had  not  been 
entirely  disinterested  when  she  climbed  up  on 
a  chair  and  took  down  some  of  her  choicest 
fruit  from  the  highest  shelf  of  the  store-room. 

"Do  you — "  A  look  from  Barbara  stopped 
the  unlucky  speech.  "Do  you  find  it  diffi 
cult?"  asked  Eloise,  instantly  mistress  of  the 
situation.  "  I  should  so  love  to  make  some 
for  myself." 

"  Miriam  will  be  glad  to  teach  you,"  put  in 
Ambrose  North.  "She  likes  to  do  it  because 
she  can  do  it  so  well." 

The  red  grew  deeper  in  Miriam's  lined  face, 
for  every  word  of  praise  from  him  was  food 
to  her  hungry  soul.  She  would  gladly  have 
laid  down  her  life  for  him,  even  though  she 
hated  herself  for  feeling  as  she  did. 

Afterward,  while  Miriam  was  clearing  off 
the  table,  Eloise  went  to  the  piano  without 


H 


(Bofcmotber 


107 


being  asked,  and  sang  to  them  for  more  than 
an  hour.  She  chose  folk-songs  and  tender 
melodies — little  songs  made  of  tears  and  laugh 
ter,  and  the  simple  ballads  that  never  grow 
old.  She  had  a  deep,  vibrant  contralto  voice 
of  splendid  range  and  volume;  she  sang  with 
rare  sympathy,  and  every  word  could  be 
clearly  understood. 

"Don't  stop/'  pleaded  Barbara,  when  she 
paused  and  ran  her  fingers  lightly  over  the 
keys. 

"  I  don't  want  to  impose  upon  your  good 
nature/'  she  returned,  "but  I  love  to  sing." 

"And  we  love  to  have  you/'  said  North. 
"  I  think,  Barbara,  we  must  get  a  new  piano." 

"  I  would  n't,"  answered  Eloise,  before  Bar 
bara  could  speak.  "The  years  improve  wine 
and  violins  and  friendship,  so  why  not  a 
piano?"  Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  she 
began  to  sing,  with  exquisite  tenderness: 

11  Sometimes  between  long  shadows  on  the  grass 
The  little  truant  waves  of  sunlight  pass; 
Mine  eyes  grow  dim  with  tenderness  the  while, 
Thinking  I  see  thee,  thinking  I  see  thee  smile. 

"  And  sometimes  in  the  twilight  gloom  apart 
The  tall  trees  whisper,  whisper  heart  to  heart; 
From  my  fond  lips  the  eager  answers  fall, 
Thinking  I  hear  thee,  thinking  I  hear  thee  call." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ambrose  North,  unsteadily,  as 
the  last  chord  died  away,  "  I  know.  You  can 


Hn  ID 
Of  Son0 


io8 


fflower  of  tbe  SHisfe 


HMcus 


call  and  call,  but  nothing  ever  comes  back  to 
you."  The  tears  streamed  over  his  blind  face 
as  he  rose  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"What  have  I  done?"  asked  Eloise.  "Oh, 
what  have  I  done?" 

"Nothing,"  sighed  Barbara.  "My  mother 
has  been  dead  for  twenty-one  years,  but  my 
father  never  forgets.  She  was  only  a  girl 
when  she  died — like  me." 

"  I  'm  so  sorry.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me 
before,  so  I  could  have  chosen  jolly,  happy 
things?" 

"That  wouldn't  keep  him  from  grieving — 
nothing  can,  so  don't  be  troubled  about  it." 

Eloise  turned  back  to  the  piano  and  sang 
two  or  three  rollicking,  laughing  melodies  that 
set  Barbara's  one  foot  to  tapping  on  the  floor, 
but  the  old  man  did  not  come  back. 

"  I  never  meant  to  stay  so  long,"  said  Eloise, 
rising  and  putting  on  her  hat." 

"It  isn't  long,"  returned  Barbara,  with 
evident  sincerity.  "  I  wish  you  would  n't  go." 

"  But  I  must,  my  dear.  If  I  don't  go,  I  can 
never  come  again.  I  have  lots  of  letters  to 
write,  and  mail  will  be  waiting  for  me,  and  I 
have  some  studying  to  do,  so  I  must  go." 

Barbara  went  to  the  door  with  her.  "Good 
bye,  Fairy  Godmother,"  she  said,  wistfully. 

"Good-bye,  Fairy  Godchild,"  answered 
Eloise,  carelessly.  Then  something  in  the 
girl's  face  impelled  her  to  put  a  strong  arm 


I  Jfair    (Bofcmotber 


around  Barbara,  and  kiss  her,  very  tenderly. 
The  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Thank  you  for  that,"  breathed  Barbara, 
"more  than  for  anything  else." 

Eloise  went  away  humming  to  herself,  but 
she  stopped  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight  of 
the  house.  "The  little  thing,"  she  thought; 
"the  dear,  brave  little  thing!  A  face  like  an 
angel,  and  that  cross  old  woman,  and  that 
beautiful  old  man  who  sees  with  his  soul. 
And  all  that  exquisite  work  and  the  prices, 
those  brutal  women  paid  her  for  it.  Blind 
and  lame,  and  nothing  to  be  done." 

Then  another  thought  made  her  brown  eyes 
very  bright.  "But  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that — 
we  '11  see." 

She  wrote  many  letters  that  afternoon, 
and  all  were  for  Barbara.  The  last  and 
longest  was  to  Doctor  Conrad,  begging 
him  to  come  at  the  first  possible  moment 
and  go  with  her  to  see  a  poor  broken  child 
who  might  be  made  well  and  strong  and 
beautiful. 

"And,"  the  letter  went  on,  "perhaps  you 
could  give  her  father  back  his  eyesight.  She 
calls  me  her  Fairy  Godmother,  and  I  rely  upon 
you  to  keep  my  proud  position  for  me. 
Any  way,  Allan,  dear,  please  come,  won't 
you?" 

She  closed  it  with  a  few  words  which  would 


no 


fflower  of  tbe  HHisfe 


•Results 


have  made  him  start  for  the  Klondike  that 
night,  had  there  been  a  train,  and  she  asked 
it  of  him;  posted  it,  and  hopefully  awaited 
results. 


W 


IX 

Rafting  tbe  Cbance 

ELL,    I  'm    here,"  remarked  Doctor 
Conrad,  as  he  sat  on  the  beach  with 


Eloise.  "  I  have  left  all  my  patients  in  the 
care  of  an  inferior,  though  reputable  physician, 
who  has  such  winning  ways  that  he  may  have 
annexed  my  entire  practice  by  the  time  I  get 
back. 

"  If  you  '11  tell  me  just  where  these  prote*ge*es 
of  yours  are,  I  '11  go  up  there  right  away.  I  '11 
ring  the  bell,  and  when  they  open  the  door 
I  '11  say:  'I  've  come  from  Miss  Wynne,  and 
I  'm  to  amputate  this  morning  and  remove  a 
couple  of  cataracts  this  afternoon.  Kindly 
have  the  patients  get  ready  at  once." 

"Don't  joke,  Allan,"  pleaded  Eloise.  Her 
brown  eyes  were  misty  and  her  mood  of  exalted 
tenderness  made  her  in  love  with  all  the  world. 
"  If  you  could  see  that  brave  little  thing,  with 
her  beautiful  face  and  her  divine  unselfishness, 
hobbling  around  on  crutches  and  sewing  for 
a  living,  meanwhile  keeping  her  blind  old 


in 


112 


ffiower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


SDiecueeing 
tbe  Case 


father  from  knowing  they  are  poor,  you  'd 
feel  just  as  I  do." 

"It  is  very  improbable,"  returned  Allan, 
seriously,  "that  anything  can  be  done.  If 
they  were  well-to-do,  they  undoubtedly  made 
every  effort  and  saw  everybody  worth  seeing." 

"But  in  twenty  years,"  suggested  Eloise, 
hopefully.  "Think  of  all  the  progress  that 
has  been  made  in  twenty  years." 

"I  know,"  said  Allan,  doubtfully.  "All  we 
can  do  is  to  see.  And  if  anything  can  be  done 
for  them,  why,  of  course  we  '11  do  it." 

"Then  we  '11  go  for  a  little  drive,"  she  said, 
"and  on  our  way  back,  we  can  stop  there  and 
get  the  things  I  bought  the  other  day.  They 
have  no  one  to  send  with  them,  and  it 's  too 
much  for  one  person  to  carry,  anyway." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  sold  everything  she  had," 
mused  Allan  impersonally. 

"Not  quite,"  answered  Eloise,  flushing.  "  I 
left  her  some  samples  for  the  Woman's 
Exchange." 

"Very  kind,"  he  observed,  with  the  same 
air  of  detachment.  "I  can  see  my  finish. 
My  wife  will  have  so  much  charity  work  for 
me  to  do  that  there  will  be  no  time  for  any 
thing  else,  and,  in  a  little  while,  she  will  have 
given  away  all  the  money  we  both  have.  Then 
when  we  're  sitting  together  in  the  sun  on  the 
front  steps  of  the  poorhouse,  we  can  fittingly 
lament  the  end  of  our  usefulness." 


tbe  Gbance 


"They  won't  let  us  sit  together/*  she  re 
torted.  "Don't  you  know  that  even  in  the 
old  people's  homes  they  keep  the  men  and 
women  apart — husbands  and  wives  included?" 

"  For  the  love  of  Mike,  what  for?"  he  asked, 
in  surprise. 

"Because  it  makes  the  place  too  gay  and 
frivolous.  Old  ladies  of  eighty  were  courted 
by  awkward  swains  of  ninety  and  more,  and 
there  was  so  much  checker-playing  in  the  even 
ing  and  so  many  lights  burning,  and  so  many 
requests  for  new  clothes,  that  the  manage 
ment  could  n't  stand  it.  There  were  heart 
burnings  and  jealousies,  too,  so  they  had  to 
adopt  a  policy  of  segregation." 

"  'Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human 
breast/  "  quoted  Allan. 

"And  love,"  she  said.  "I've  thought 
sometimes  I  'd  like  to  play  fairy  godmother 
to  some  of  those  poor,  desolate  old  people  who 
love  each  other,  and  give  them  a  pretty  wed 
ding.  Would  n't  it  be  dear  to  see  two  old 
people  married  and  settled  in  a  little  home  of 
their  own?" 

"Or,  more  likely,  with  us,"  he  returned. 
"  I  've  been  thinking  about  a  nice  little  house 
with  a  guest  room  or  two,  but  I  've  changed 
my  mind.  My  vote  is  for  a  very  small  apart 
ment.  You  're  not  the  sort  to  be  trusted  with 
a  guest  room." 

Eloise  laughed  and  sprang  to  her  feet.     "On 


policy  of 

Segregaa 
tion 


fflower  of  tbe 


Starting 
©ff 


to  the  errand  of  mercy,"  she  said.  "We  're 
wasting  valuable  time.  Get  a  horse  and  buggy 
and  I  '11  see  if  I  can  borrow  an  extra  suit-case 
or  two  for  my  purchases." 

When  she  came  down,  Allan  was  waiting 
for  her  in  the  buggy.  A  bell-boy,  in  her  wake, 
brought  three  suit-cases  and  piled  them  under 
the  seat.  Half  a  dozen  rocking-chairs,  on  the 
veranda,  held  highly  interested  observers.  The 
paraphernalia  suggested  an  elopement. 

"Tell  those  women  on  the  veranda,"  said 
Eloise,  to  the  boy,  "that  I  'm  not  taking  any 
trunks  and  will  soon  be  back." 

"What  for?"  queried  Allan,  as  they  drove 
away. 

"  Reasons  of  my  own,"  she  answered,  crisply. 
"Men  are  as  blind  as  bats."  ^ 

"  I  'm  wearing  glasses,"  he  returned,  with 
due  humility.  "  If  you  think  I  'm  fit  to  hear 
why  you  left  that  cryptic  message,  I  'd  be 
pleased  to." 

"  You  're  far  from  fit.  Here,  turn  into 
this  road." 

Spread  like  a  tawny  ribbon  upon  the  green 
of  the  hills,  the  road  wound  lazily  through  open 
sunny  spaces  and  shaded  aisles  sweet  with  that 
cool  fragrance  found  only  in  the  woods.  The 
horse  did  not  hurry,  but  wandered  comfortably 
from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  browsing  where 
he  chose.  He  seemed  to  know  that  lovers 
were  driving  him. 


Uafeing  tbe  Cbance 


"He's  a  one-armed  horse,  isn't  he?" 
laughed  Eloise.  "I  like  him  lots  better  than 
an  automobile,  don't  you  ?" 

"Out  here,  I  do.  But  an  automobile  has 
certain  advantages." 

"What  are  they?"  she  demanded.  "I  'd 
rather  feed  a  horse  than  to  buy  a  tire,  any  day." 

"So  would  I — unless  he  tired  of  his  feed. 
But  if  you  want  to  get  anywhere  very  quickly 
and  the  thing  happens  not  to  break,  the 
machine  is  better." 

"  But  it  never  happens.  I  believe  the  aver 
age  automobile  is  possessed  of  an  intuition 
little  short  of  devilish.  A  horse  seems  more 
friendly.  If  you  were  thinking  of  getting  me 
a  little  electric  runabout  for  my  birthday, 
please  change  it  to  a  horse." 

"All  right,"  returned  Allan,  serenely.  "We 
can  keep  him  in  the  living-room  of  our  six- 
room  apartment  and  have  his  dinner  sent  in 
from  the  nearest  table  d'oat.  For  breakfast, 
he  can  come  out  into  the  salle  a  manger  and 
eat  cereals  with  us." 

"  You  're  absolutely  incorrigible,"  she  sighed. 
"This  is  the  river  road.  Follow  it  until  I  tell 
you  where  to  turn." 

Within  half  an  hour,  the  horse  came  to  a 
full  stop  of  his  own  accord  in  front  of  the  grey, 
weather-worn  house  where  Barbara  lived.  He 
was  cropping  at  a  particularly  enticing  clump 
of  grass  when  Eloise  alighted. 


Dorses 
versus 
Hutos 


n6 


of  tbe  Dusfc 


tfons 


"Going  to  push?"  queried  Allan,  lazily. 

"No,  this  is  the  place.  Come  on.  You 
bring  two  of  the  suit-cases  and  I  '11  take  the 
other." 

The  blind  man  was  not  there  at  the  moment, 
but  came  in  while  Miriam  was  upstairs  packing 
Miss  Wynne's  recent  additions  to  her  ward 
robe.  Doctor  Conrad  had  been  observing 
Barbara  keenly  as  they  talked  of  indifferent 
things.  Outwardly,  he  was  calm  and  pro 
fessional,  but  within,  a  warmly  human  impulse 
answered  her  evident  need. 

He  was  young  and  had  not  yet  been  at  his 
work  long  enough  to  determine  his  ultimate  na~ 
ture.  Later  on,  his  profession  would  do  to 
him  one  of  two  things.  It  would  transform  him 
into  a  mere  machine,  brutalised  and  calloused, 
with  only  one  or  two  emotions  aside  from  self 
ishness  left  to  thrive  in  his  dwarfed  soul,  or 
it  would  humanise  him  to  godlike  unselfish 
ness,  attune  him  to  a  divine  sympathy,  and 
mellow  his  heart  in  tenderness  beyond  words. 
In  one  instance  he  would  be  feared;  in  the 
other,  only  loved,  by  those  who  came  to 
him. 

As  Barbara  went  across  the  room  to  another 
chair,  his  eyes  followed  her  with  intense  in 
terest.  Eloise  shrank  from  him  a  little — she 
had  never  seen  him  like  this  before.  Yet 
she  knew,  from  the  expression  of  his  face, 
that  he  had  found  hope,  and  was  glad. 


tbe  Gbance  117 


"Barbara?"  It  was  Miriam,  calling  from 
upstairs. 

"In  just  a  minute,  Aunty.  Excuse  me, 
please — I  '11  come  right  back." 

She  was  scarcely  out  of  the  room  before 
Eloise  leaned  over  to  Allan,  her  face  alight  with 
eager  questioning.  "You  think — ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  returned,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  It  depends  on  the  hardness  of  the  muscles 
and  several  other  local  conditions.  Of  course 
it 's  impossible  to  tell  definitely  without  a 
thorough  examination,  but  I  've  done  it  suc 
cessfully  in  two  adult  cases,  and  have  seen  it 
done  more  than  a  dozen  times.  I  'd  be  very 
willing  to  try." 

"Oh,  Allan,"  whispered  Eloise.  "I'm  so 
glad." 

Barbara's  padded  crutches  sounded  softly 
on  the  stairs  as  she  came  down.  Eloise  went 
to  the  window  and  studied  the  horse  atten 
tively,  though  he  was  not  of  the  restless  sort 
that  needs  to  be  tied. 

While  she  was  watching,  Ambrose  North 
came  around  the  base  of  the  hill,  crossed  the 
road,  and  opened  the  gate.  He  had  been  to 
his  old  solitude  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  where,  as 
nowhere  else,  he  found  peace.  While  he  was 
talking  with  the  visitors,  Miriam  went  out, 
taking  the  neatly-packed  suit-cases,  one  at  a 
time,  and  put  them  into  the  buggy. 

"Mr.  North,"  said  Doctor  Conrad,  "while 


n8 


ff lower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


Hbout 
SSarbara 


these  girls  are  chattering,  will  you  go  for  a 
little  drive  with  me?" 

The  blind  man's  fine  old  face  illumined 
with  pleasure.  "  I  should  like  it  very  much," 
he  said.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  I  had  have 
a  drive." 

"  It 's  more  like  a  walk,"  laughed  Allan,  as 
they  went  out,  "with  this  horse." 

"We  sold  our  horses  many  years  ago,"  the 
old  man  explained,  as  he  climbed  in.  "  Miriam 
is  afraid  of  horses  and  Barbara  said  she  did 
not  care  to  go.  I  thought  the  open  air  and 
the  slight  exercise  would  be  good  for  her,  but 
she  insisted  upon  my  selling  them." 

"It  is  about  Barbara  that  I  wished  to 
speak,"  said  Allan.  "With  your  consent,  I 
should  like  to  make  a  thorough  examination 
and  see  whether  an  operation  would  not  do 
away  with  her  crutches  entirely." 

"  It  is  no  use,"  sighed  North,  wearily.  "We 
went  everywhere  and  did  everything,  long 
ago.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  done." 

"But  there  may  be,"  insisted  Allan.  "We 
have  learned  much,  in  my  profession,  in  the 
last  twenty  years.  May  I  try?" 

"  You  're  asking  me  if  you  can  hurt  my 
baby?" 

"Not  to  hurt  her  more  than  is  necessary  to 
heal.  Understand  me,  I  do  not  know  but 
what  you  are  right,  but  I  hope,  and  believe, 
that  there  may  be  a  chance." 


tbe  Cbance 


"I  have  dreamed  sometimes,"  said  the  old          ft 
man,  very  slowly,  "that  my  baby  could  walk 
and  I  could  see." 

"The  dream  shall  come  true,  if  it  is  possible. 
Let  me  see  your  eyes."  He  stopped  the  horse 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  the  sun  shone 
clear  and  strong,  stood  up,  and  turned  the 
blind  face  to  the  light.  Then,  sitting  down 
once  more,  he  asked  innumerable  questions. 
When  he  finally  was  silent,  Ambrose  North 
turned  to  him,  indifferently. 

"Well?"  The  tone  was  simply  polite  in 
quiry.  The  matter  seemed  to  be  one  which 
concerned  nobody. 

"Again  I  do  not  know,"  returned  Allan. 
"This  is  altogether  out  of  my  line,  but,  if  you  '11 
go  to  the  city  with  me,  I  '11  take  you  to  a 
friend  of  mine  who  is  a  great  specialist.  If 
anything  can  be  done,  he  is  the  man  who  can 
do  it.  Will  you  come?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "If  Barbara  is 
willing,"  he  answered  simply.  "Ask  her." 

Meanwhile,  Eloise  was  talking  to  Barbara. 
First,  she  told  her  of  the  letters  she  had  written 
in  her  behalf  and  to  which  the  answers  might 
come  any  day  now.  Then  she  asked  if  she 
might  order  preserves  from  Aunt  Miriam,  and 
discussed  patterns  and  material  for  the  lingerie 
she  had  previously  spoken  of.  Finding,  at 
length,  that  the  best  way  to  approach  a  diifi- 


120 


flower  of  tbe  Dusfc 


Ube 
plunge 


cult  subject  was  the  straightest  one,  she  took 
the  plunge. 

"Have  you  always  been  lame?"  she  asked. 
She  did  not  look  at  Barbara,  but  tried  to  speak 
carelessly,  as  she  gazed  out  of  the  window. 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer,  so  low  that  she 
could  scarcely  hear  it. 

"Would  n't  you  like  to  walk  like  the  rest 
of  us?"  continued  Eloise. 

Barbara  writhed  under  the  torturing  ques 
tion.  "My  mind  can  walk,"  she  said,  with 
difficulty;  "my  soul  is  n't  lame." 

The  tone  made  Eloise  turn  quickly — and 
hate  herself  bitterly  for  her  awkwardness. 
She  saw  that  an  apology  would  only  make  a 
bad  matter  worse,  so  she  went  straight 
on. 

"Doctor  Conrad  is  very  skilful,"  she  con 
tinued.  "In  the  city,  he  is  one  of  the  few 
really  great  surgeons.  He  told  me  that  he 
would  like  to  make  an  examination  and  see  if 
an  operation  would  not  do  away  with  the 
crutches.  He  thinks  there  may  be  a  good 
chance.  If  there  is,  will  you  take  it  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara,  almost  inaudi- 
bly.  Her  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper  and  she 
was  very  pale.  "I  do  not  mean  to  seem  un 
grateful,  but  it  is  impossible." 

" Impossible!"  repeated  Eloise.     "Why  ?" 

"Because  of  father,"  explained  Barbara. 
Her  colour  was  coming  back  slowly  now.  "  I 


ZTafefng  tbe  Gbance 


121 


am  all  he  has,  my  work  supplies  his  needs,  and 
I  dare  not  take  the  risk/' 

"  Is  that  the  only  reason?" 

Barbara  nodded. 

"You 're  not  afraid?" 

Barbara's  blue  eyes  opened  wide  with 
astonishment.  "Why  should  I  be  afraid?" 
she  asked.  "Do  you  take  me  for  a  coward?" 

Eloise  knelt  beside  Barbara's  low  chair 
and  put  her  strong  arms  around  the  slender, 
white-clad  figure.  "Listen,  dear,"  she  said. 
Her  face  was  shining  as  though  with  some 
great  inner  light. 

"My  own  dear  father  died  when  I  was  a 
child.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  born.  I 
have  never  had  anything  but  money.  I  have 
never  had  anyone  to  take  care  of,  no  one  to 
make  sacrifices  for,  no  one  to  make  me  strong 
because  I  was  needed.  If  the  worst  should 
happen,  would  you  trust  your  father  to  me? 
Could  you  trust  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara  slowly;  "I  could." 

"Then  I  promise  you  solemnly  that  your 
father  shall  never  want  for  anything  while  he 
lives.  And  now,  if  there  is  a  chance,  will  you 
take  it — for  me  ?" 

Barbara  looked  long  into  the  sweet  face, 
glorified  by  the  inner  light.  Then  she  leaned 
forward  and  put  her  soft  arms  around  the 
older  woman,  hiding  her  face  in  the  masses  of 
copper-coloured  hair. 


Compact 


jfiower  ot  tbe  Busfe 


"  For  you  ?  A  thousand  times,  yes,"  she 
sobbed.  "  Oh,  anything  for  you  !  " 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  Ambrose  North 
and  Barbara  were  alone  again,  he  came  over  to 
her  chair  and  stroked  her  shining  hair  with  a 
loving  hand. 

"Did  they  tell  you,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Barbara. 

"  I  have  dreamed  so  often  that  my  baby 
could  walk  and  I  could  see.  He  said  that  the 
dream  should  come  true  if  he  could  make  it 
so." 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  your  eyes?" 
asked  Barbara,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes.  He  thinks  there  may  be  a  chance 
there,  too.  If  you  are  willing,  I  am  to  go  to 
the  city  with  him  sometime  and  see  a  friend 
of  his  who  is  a  great  specialist." 

"Oh,  Daddy,"  cried  Barbara.  "I  'm  afraid 
—  for  you." 

He  drew  a  chair  up  near  hers  and  sat  down. 
The  old  hand,  in  which  the  pulses  moved  so 
slowly,  clasped  the  younger  one,  warm  with 
life. 

"Barbara,"  he  said;  "I  have  never  seen  my 
baby." 

"  I  know,  Daddy." 

"  I  want  to  see  you,  dear." 

"And  I  want  you  to." 

"Then,  will  you  let  me  go?" 


ITafeing  tbe  Cbance 


123 


"Perhaps,  but  it  must  be  —  afterward,  you 

knOW." 


"Because,  when  you  see  me,  I  want  to  be 
strong  and  well.  I  want  to  be  able  to  walk. 
You  must  n't  see  the  crutches,  Daddy  —  they 
are  ugly  things." 

"  Nothing  could  be  ugly  that  belongs  to  you. 
I  made  a  little  song  this  afternoon,  while  you 
and  Miriam  were  talking  and  I  was  out  alone." 

"Tell  me." 

"Once  there  was  a  man  who  had  a  garden. 
When  he  was  a  child  he  had  played  in  it,  in 
his  youth  and  early  manhood  he  had  worked 
in  it  and  found  pleasure  in  seeing  things  grow, 
but  he  did  not  really  know  what  a  beautiful 
garden  it  was  until  another  walked  in  it  with 
him  and  found  it  fair. 

"Together  they  watched  it  from  Springtime 
to  harvest,  finding  new  beauty  in  it  every  day. 
One  night  at  twilight  she  whispered  to  him  that 
some  day  a  perfect  flower  of  their  very  own 
was  to  bloom  in  the  garden.  They  watched 
and  waited  and  prayed  for  it  together,  but, 
before  it  blossomed,  the  man  went  blind. 

"  In  the  darkness,  he  could  not  see  the  gar 
den,  but  she  was  still  there,  bringing  divine 
consolation  with  her  touch,  and  whispering  to 
him  always  of  the  perfect  flower  so  soon  to  be 
their  own. 

"When  it  blossomed,  the  man  could  not  see 


Beautiful 


I24 


fflower  ot  tbe  Busfe 


H  perfect 


it,  but  the  one  who  walked  beside  him  told  him 
that  it  was  as  pure  and  fair  as  they  had  prayed 
it  might  be.  They  enjoyed  it  together  for  a 
year,  and  he  saw  it  through  her  eyes. 

"Then  she  went  to  God's  Garden,  and  he  was 
left  desolate  and  alone.  He  cared  for  nothing 
and  for  a  time  even  forgot  the  flower  that  she 
had  left.  Weeds  grew  among  the  flowers, 
nettles  and  thistles  took  possession  of  the 
walks,  and  strange  vines  choked  with  their 
tendrils  everything  that  dared  to  bloom. 

"One  day,  he  went  out  into  the  intolerable 
loneliness  and  desolation,  and,  groping  blindly, 
he  found  among  the  nettles  and  thistles  and 
weeds  the  one  perfect  white  blossom.  It  was 
cool  and  soft  to  his  hot  hand,  it  was  exquisitely 
fragrant,  and,  more  than  all,  it  was  part  of  her. 
Gradually,  it  eased  his  pain.  He  took  out  the 
weeds  and  thistles  as  best  he  could,  but  there 
was  little  he  could  do,  for  he  had  left  it  too  long. 

"The  years  went  by,  but  the  flower  did  not 
fade.  Seeking,  he  always  found  it;  weary,  it 
always  refreshed  him;  starving,  it  fed  his  soul. 
Blind,  it  gave  him  sight;  weak,  it  gave  him 
courage;  hurt,  it  brought  him  balm.  At  last 
he  lived  only  because  of  it,  for,  in  some  mysteri 
ous  way,  it  seemed  to  need  him,  too,  and  some 
times  it  even  seemed  divinely  to  restore  the  lost. 
""•^•ElQwer-of  thg^Dusk,"  he  said,  leaning  to 
Barbara;  "what  should  I  have  been  without 
you  ?  How  could  I  have  borne  it  all  ?"  , 


tbe  Gbance 


"God  suits  the  burden  to  the  bearer,  I 
think,"  she  answered,  softly.  "  If  you  have 
much  to  bear,  it  is  because  you  are  strong 
enough  to  do  it  nobly  and  well.  Only  the 
weak  are  allowed  to  shirk,  and  shift  their  load 
to  the  shoulders  of  the  strong." 

"I  know,  but,  Barbara — suppose " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  suppose,  Daddy.  What 
ever  happened  would  be  the  best  that  could 
happen.  I  'm  not  afraid." 

Her  voice  rang  clear  and  strong.  Insen 
sibly,  he  caught  some  of  her  own  fine  courage 
and  his  soul  rallied  greatly  to  meet  hers. 
From  her  height  she  had  summoned  him  as 
with  a  bugle-call,  and  he  had  answered. 

"The  ways  of  the  Everlasting  are  not  our 
ways,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  not  be  afraid. 
No,  I  will  not  let  myself  be  afraid." 


Strength 
for  tbe 
JSur&en 


126 


B  Summer 
Xsvcnlncj 


flu  tbe  <3arben 

HHHE  subtle,  far-reaching  fragrance  of  a 
1  Summer  night  came  through  the  open 
window.  A  cool  wind  from  the  hills  had  set 
the  maple  branches  to  murmuring  and  hushed 
the  incoming  tide  as  it  swept  up  to  the  waiting 
shore.  Out  in  the  illimitable  darkness  of  the 
East,  grey  surges  throbbed  like  the  beating 
of  a  troubled  heart,  but  the  shore  knew  only 
the  drowsy  croon  of  a  sea  that  has  gone  to 
sleep. 

Golden  lilies  swung  their  censers  softly,  and 
the  exquisite  incense  perfumed  the  dusk. 
Fairy  lamp-bearers  starred  the  night  with 
glimmering  radiance,  faintly  seen  afar.  A 
cricket  chirped  just  outside  the  window  and  a 
ghostly  white  moth  circled  around  the  even 
ing  lamp. 

Roger  sat  by  the  table,  with  Keats's  letters 
to  his  beloved  Fanny  open  before  him.  The 
letter  to  Constance,  so  strangely  brought  back 
after  all  the  intervening  years,  lay  beside 
the  book.  The  ink  was  faded  and  the  paper 


In  tbe  <$arften 


127 


was  yellow,  but  his  father's  love,  for  a  woman 
not  his  mother,  stared  the  son  full  in  the 
face  and  was  not  to  be  denied. 

Was  this  all,  or — ?  His  thought  refused  to 
go  further.  Constance  North  had  died,  by 
her  own  hand,  four  days  after  the  letter  was 
written.  What  might  not  have  happened  in 
four  days?  In  one  day,  Columbus  found  a 
world.  In  another,  electricity  was  discovered. 
In  one  day,  one  hour,  even,  some  immeasurable 
force  moving  according  to  unseen  law  might 
sway  the  sun  and  set  all  the  stars  to  reeling 
madly  through  the  unutterable  midnights  of 
the  universe.  And  in  four  days?  Ah,  what 
had  happened  in  those  four  days? 

The  question  had  haunted  him  since  the 
night  he  read  the  letter,  when  he  was  reading 
to  Barbara  and  had  unwittingly  come  upon  it. 
Constance  was  dead  and  Laurence  Austin  was 
dead,  but  their  love  lived  on.  The  grave  was 
closed  against  it,  and  in  neither  heaven  nor 
hell  could  it  find  an  abiding-place.  Ghostly 
and  forbidding,  it  had  sent  Constance  to 
haunt  Miriam's  troubled  sleep,  it  had  filled 
Ambrose  North's  soul  with  cruel  doubt  and 
foreboding,  and  had  now  come  back  to  Roger 
and  Barbara,  to  ask  eternal  questions  of  the 
one,  and  stir  the  heart  of  the  other  to  new 
depths  of  pain. 

He  had  not  seen  Barbara  since  that  night 
and  she  had  sent  no  message.  No  beacon 


H 

IRccurring 
(Question 


128 


jfiower  of  tbe  Dusft 


Uremenfc* 

ous  power 


light  in  the  window  across  the  way  said 
"  come."  The  sword  that  had  lain,  keen-edged 
and  cruel,  between  Constance  and  her  lover, 
had,  by  a  single  swift  stroke,  changed  every 
thing  between  her  daughter  and  his  son. 

Not  that  Barbara  herself  was  less  beautiful 
or  less  dear.  Roger  had  missed  her  more  than 
he  realised.  When  her  lovely,  changing  face 
had  come  between  his  eyes  and  the  musty 
pages  of  his  law  books,  while  the  disturbing 
Bascom  pup  cavorted  merrily  around  the  office, 
unheard  and  unheeded,  Roger  had  ascribed  it 
to  the  letter  that  had  forced  them  apart. 

The  woollen  slippers  muffled  Miss  Mattie's 
step  so  that  Roger  did  not  hear  her  enter  the 
room.  Preoccupied  and  absorbed,  he  was 
staring  vacantly  out  of  the  window,  when  a 
strong,  capable  hand  swooped  down  beside 
him,  gathering  up  the  book  and  the  letter. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  your  readin', 
Roger,"  complained  his  mother,  "that  makes 
you  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  and  practically 
paralysed.  Your  pa  was  the  same  way. 
Reckon  I  '11  read  a  piece  myself  and  see  what 
it  is  that 's  so  affectin'.  It  ain't  a  very  big 
book,  but  it  seems  to  have  tremendous  power." 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  read  aloud,  in  a 
curiously  unsympathetic  voice  which  grated 
abominably  upon  her  unwilling  listener: 

"  'Ask  yourself,  my  Love,  whether  you  are 


1fn  tbe  (Batmen 


129 


not  very  cruel  to  have  so  entrammelled  me,  so 
destroyed  my  freedom.  Will  you  confess  this 
in  the  letter  you  must  write  immediately  and 
do  all  you  can  to  console  me  in  it — make  it  rich 
as  a  draught  of  poppies  to  intoxicate  me — write 
the  softest  words  and  kiss  them,  that  I  may  at 
least  touch  my  lips  where  yours  have  been. 
For  myself,  I  know  not  how  to  express  my  de 
votion  to  so  fair  a  form;  I  want  a  brighter  word 
than  bright,  a  fairer  word  than  fair.  I  almost 
wish  we  were  butterflies  and  lived  but  three 
summer  days — three  such  days  with  you  I 
could  fill  with  more  delight  than  fifty  common 
years  could  ever  contain.' 

"Ain't  that  wonderful,  Roger?  Wants  to 
get  drunk  on  poppies  and  kiss  the  writin'  and 
thinks  after  that  he  '11  be  made  into  a  butter 
fly.  Your  pa  could  n't  have  been  far  from 
bein'  a  butterfly  when  he  bought  this  book. 
There  ain't  no  sense  in  it.  And  this — why, 
it 's  your  pa's  writin',  Roger!  I  ain't  seen  it 
for  years." 

Miss  Mattie  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  and 
brought  the  letter  to  Constance  close  to  the 
light.  She  read  it  through,  calmly,  without 
haste  or  excitement.  Roger's  hands  gripped 
the  arms  of  his  chair  and  his  face  turned  ashen. 
His  whole  body  was  tense. 

Then,  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  the 
moment  passed.  Miss  Mattie  took  of?  her 
spectacles  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair 


H 

Aoment'8 
pain 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Dusk 


with  great  weariness  evident  in  every  line  of 


her  figure. 


"Roger,"  she  said,  sadly,  "  there's  no  use 
in  tryin'  to  conceal  it  from  you  any  longer. 
Your  pa  was  crazy  —  as  crazy  as  a  loon.  What 
with  buyin'  books  so  steady  and  readin'  of 
'em  so  continual,  his  mind  got  unhinged.  I  've 
always  suspected  it,  and  now  I  know. 

"  Your  pa  gets  this  book,  and  reads  all  this 
stuff  that  's  been  written  about  'Fanny/  and 
he  don't  see  no  reason  why  he  should  n't  dupli 
cate  it  and  maybe  get  it  printed.  I  knew  he 
set  great  store  by  books,  but  it  comes  to  me 
as  a  shock  that  he  was  allowin'  to  write  'em. 
Some  of  the  time  he  sees  he  's  crazy  himself. 
Did  n't  you  see,  there  where  he  says,  '  I  hope 
you  do  not  blame  me  because  I  went  mad'? 
'Mad'  is  the  refined  word  for  crazy., 

"Then  he  goes  on  about  eatin'  husks  and 
bein'  starved.  That  's  what  I  told  him  when 
he  insisted  on  havin'  oatmeal  cooked  for  his 
breakfast  every  mornin'.  I  told  him  humans 
could  n't  expect  to  live  on  horse-feed,  but, 
la  sakes!  He  never  paid  no  attention  to  me. 
I  could  set  and  talk  by  the  hour  just  as  I  'm 
talkin'  to  you  and  he  was  n't  listenin'  any 
more  'n  you  be." 

"I  am  listening,  Mother,"  he  assured  her, 
in  a  forced  voice.  He  could  not  say  with 
what  joyful  relief. 

"Maybe,"  she  went  on,  "I  'd  'a'  been  more 


1Fn  tbe  (Barfcen  131 


gentle  with  your  pa  if  I  'd  realised  just  what  fnncr 
condition  his  mind  was  in.  There  's  a  book 
in  the  attic  full  of  just  such  writin'  as  this. 
I  found  it  once  when  I  was  cleaning,  but  I  never 
paid  no  more  attention  to  it.  I  surmised  it 
was  somethin'  he  was  copyin'  out  of  another 
book  that  he  'd  borrowed  from  the  minister, 
but  I  see  now.  The  Lord  tempers  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  lamb.  If  I  'd  'a*  knowed  what  it 
was  then,  maybe  I  could  n't  have  bore  it  as 
I  can  now." 

Seizing  his  opportunity,  Roger  put  the  book 
and  the  letter  aside.  Miss  Mattie  slipped  out 
of  its  wrapper  the  paper  which  Roger  had 
brought  to  her  from  the  post-office  that  same 
night,  and  began  to  read.  Roger  sat  back  in 
his  chair  with  his  eyes  closed,  meditating  upon 
the  theory  of  Chance,  and  wondering  if,  after 
all,  there  was  a  single  controlling  purpose  be 
hind  the  extraordinary  things  that  happened. 

Miss  Mattie  wiped  her  spectacles  twice  and 
changed  her  position  three  times.  Then  she 
got  another  chair  and  moved  the  lamp  closer. 
At  last  she  clucked  sharply  with  her  false 
teeth — always  the  outward  evidence  of  inner 
turmoil  or  displeasure. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mother?" 

"I  can't  see  with  these  glasses,"  she  said, 
fretfully.  "I  can  see  a  lot  better  without 
'em  than  I  can  with  'em." 

"  Have  you  wiped  them  ?" 


jflower  of  tbe  H>usfe 


"  Yes,  I  've  wiped  'em  till  it 's  a.  wonder  the 
polish  ain't  all  wore  off  the  glass." 

"  Put  them  up  close  to  your  eyes  instead  of 
wearing  them  so  far  down  on  your  nose." 

"  I  've  tried  that,  but  the  closer  they  get  to 
my  eyes,  the  more  I  can't  see.  The  further 
away  they  are,  the  better  't  is.  When  I  have 
'em  off,  I  can  see  pretty  good." 

"Then  why  don't  you  take  them  off?" 

"That  sounds  just  like  your  pa.  Do  you 
suppose,  after  payin'  seven  dollars  and  ninety 
cents  for  these  glasses,  and  more  'n  twice  as 
much  for  my  gold-bowed  ones,  that  I  ain't 
goin'  to  use  'em  and  get  the  benefit  of  'em  ? 
Your  pa  never  had  no  notion  of  economy. 
They  're  just  as  good  as  they  ever  was,  and  I 
reckon  I  '11  wear  'em  out,  if  I  live." 

"  But,  Mother,  your  eyes  may  have  changed. 
They  probably  have." 

Miss  Mattie  went  to  the  kitchen  and  brought 
back  a  small,  cracked  mirror.  She  studied 
the  offending  orbs  by  the  light,  very  carefully, 
both  with  and  without  her  spectacles. 

"No,  they  ain't,"  she  announced,  finally. 
"They  're  the  same  size  and  shape  and  colour 
that  they  've  always  been,  and  the  specs  are 
the  same.  Your  pa  bought  'em  for  me  soon 
after  you  commenced  readin'  out  of  a  reader, 
and  they  're  just  as  good  as  they  ever  was. 
It  must  be  the  oil.  I  've  noticed  that  it  gets 
poorer  every  time  the  price  goes  up."  She 


In  tbe  (Barren 


133 


pushed  the  paper  aside  with  a  sigh.  "I  was 
readin'  such  a  nice  story,  too." 

"Shan't  I  read  it  to  you,  Mother?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know.     Do  you  want  to?" 

"Surely,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"Then  you  'd  better  begin  a  new  story,  be 
cause  I  'm  more  'n  half-way  through  this  one." 

"  I  '11  begin  right  where  you  left  of?,  Mother. 
It  does  n't  make  a  particle  of  difference  to  me." 

"  But  you  won't  get  the  sense  of  it.  I  'd 
like  for  you  to  enjoy  it  while  you  're  readin'." 

"Don't  worry  about  my  enjoying  it — you 
know  I  've  always  been  fond  of  books.  If 
there  's  anything  I  don't  understand,  I  can 
ask  you." 

"All  right.  Begin  right  here  in  True  Gold, 
or  Pretty  Crystal's  Love.  This  is  the  place: 
'  With  a  terrible  scream,  Crystal  sprang  toward 
the  fire  escape,  carrying  her  mother  and  her 
little  sister  in  her  arms/  ' 

For  nearly  two  hours,  Roger  read,  in  a  deep, 
mellow  voice,  of  the  adventures  of  poor,  per 
secuted  Crystal,  who  was  only  sixteen,  and 
engaged  to  a  floor-walker  in  'one  of  the  great 
city's  finest  emporiums  of  trade/  He  and  his 
mother  both  sighed  when  he  came  to  the  end 
of  the  installment,  but  for  vastly  different 
reasons. 

"Ain't  it  lovely,  Roger?" 

"It 's  what  you  might  call  'different/  "  he 
temporised,  with  a  smile. 


TIwo 
Sfgbs 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Just  think  of  that  poor  little  thing  havm 

o'Cloch       ,         u  r        u  •       i        •          •  x 

her  house  set  afire  by  a  rival  suitor  just  after 
she  had  paid  off  the  mortgage  by  savin'  out  of 
her  week's  wages!  Do  you  suppose  he  will 
ever  win  her?" 

"  I  should  n't  think  it  likely." 

"No,  you  would  n't,  but  the  endin'  of  those 
stories  is  always  what  you  would  n't  expect. 
It's  what  makes  'em  so  interestin'  and,  as  you 
say,  'different.'  ' 

Roger  did  not  answer.  He  merely  yawned 
and  tapped  impatiently  on  the  table  with  his 
fingers. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked,  adjusting  her 
spectacles  carefully  upon  the  ever-useful  and 
unfailing  wart. 

"A  little  after  nine." 

"Sakes  alive!  It 's  time  I  was  abed.  I  've 
got  to  get  up  early  in  the  mornin'  and  set  my 
bread.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Mother." 

"  Don't  set  up  long.    Oil  is  terrible  high." 

"All  right,  Mother." 

Miss  Mattie  went  upstairs  and  closed  her 
door  with  a  resounding  bang.  Roger  heard 
her  strike  a  match  on  a  bit  of  sandpaper 
tacked  on  the  wall  near  the  match-safe,  and 
close  the  green  blinds  that  served  the  pur 
pose  of  the  more  modern  window-shades. 
Soon,  a  deep,  regular  sound  suggestive  of 
comfortable  slumber  echoed  and  re-echoed 


fn  tbe  Oarfcen 


overhead.     Then,  and  then  only,  he  dared  to 


He  sat  on  the  narrow  front  porch  for  a  few 
minutes,  deeply  breathing  the  cool  air  and 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  night.  Across  the 
way,  the  little  grey  house  seemed  lonely  and 
forlorn.  The  upper  windows  were  dark,  but 
downstairs  Barbara's  lamp  still  shone. 

"Sewing,  probably,"  mused  Roger.  "Poor 
little  thing." 

As  he  watched,  the  lamp  was  put  out.  Then 
a  white  shadow  moved  painfully  toward  the 
window,  bent,  and  struck  a  match.  Star- 
like,  Barbara's  signal-light  flamed  out  into  the 
gloom,  with  its  eager  message. 

"She  wants  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  The 
joy  was  inextricably  mingled  with  pain.  "She 
wants  me,"  he  thought,  "and  I  must  not  go." 

"Why?"  asked  his  heart,  and  his  conscience 
replied,  miserably,  "Because." 

For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  he  argued  with 
himself,  vainly.  Every  objection  that  came 
forward  was  reasoned  down  by  a  trained  mind, 
versed  in  the  intricacies  of  the  law.  The 
deprivations  of  the  fathers  need  not  always 
descend  unto  the  children.  At  last  he  went 
over,  wondering  whether  his  father  had  not 
more  than  once,  and  at  the  same  hour,  taken 
the  same  path. 

Barbara  was  out  in  the  garden,  dreaming. 
For  the  first  time  in  years,  when  she  had  work 


'36 


jflower  ot  tbe  JDusft 


Uwo 

Uours  of 
life 


to  do,  she  had  laid  it  aside  before  eleven  o'clock. 
But,  in  two  hours,  she  could  have  made  little 
progress  with  her  embroidery,  and  she  chose 
to  take  for  herself  two  hours  of  life,  out  of 
what  might  prove  to  be  the  last  night  she  had 
to  live. 

When  Roger  opened  the  gate,  Barbara  took 
her  crutches  and  rose  out  of  her  low  chair. 

"Don't,"  he  said.     "I  'm  coming  to  you." 

She  had  brought  out  another  chair,  with 
great  difficulty,  in  anticipation  of  his  coming. 
Her  own  was  near  the  moonflower  that  climbed 
over  the  tiny  veranda  and  was  now  in  full 
bloom.  The  white,  half-open  trumpets,  deli 
cately  fragrant,  had  more  than  once  reminded 
him  of  Barbara  herself. 

"What  a  brute  I  'd  be,"  thought  Roger, 
with  a  pang,  "if  I  had  disappointed  her." 

"  I  'm  so  glad,"  said  Barbara,  giving  him  a 
cool,  soft  little  hand.  "I  began  to  be  afraid 
you  could  n't  come." 

"I  couldn't,  just  at  first,  but  afterward  it 
was  all  right.  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  well,  thank  you,  but  I  'm  going  to  be 
made  better  to-morrow.  That 's  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you  to-night — it  may  be  for  the  last 
time." 

Her  words  struck  him  with  chill  foreboding. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"To-morrow,  some  doctors  are  coming  down 
from  the  city,  with  two  nurses  and  a  few  other 


Un  tbe  Oarfcen  137 

things.  They  're  going  to  see  if  I  can't  do 
without  these."  She  indicated  the  crutches 
with  an  inclination  of  her  golden  head.  waori& 

"  Barbara,"  he  gasped.  "  You  must  n't. 
It  's  impossible." 

"Nothing  is  impossible  any  more,"  she 
returned,  serenely. 

"That  is  n't  what  I  meant.  You  must  n't 
be  hurt." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  be  hurt — much.  It 's 
all  to  be  done  while  I  'm  asleep.  Miss  Wynne, 
a  lady  from  the  hotel,  brought  Doctor  Conrad 
to  see  me.  Afterward,  he  came  again  by  him 
self,  and  he  says  he  is  very  sure  that  it  will 
come  out  all  right.  And  when  I  'm  straight 
and  strong  and  can  walk,  he  's  going  to  try  to 
have  father  made  to  see.  A  fairy  godmother 
came  in  and  waved  her  wand,"  went  on  Bar 
bara,  lightly,  "and  the  poor  became  rich 
at  once.  Now  the  lame  are  to  walk  and  the 
blind  to  see.  Is  it  not  a  wonderful  world  ?  " 

"Barbara!"  cried  Roger;  "I  can't  bear  it. 
I  don't  want  you  changed — I  want  you  just 
as  you  are." 

"  Such  impediments  as  are  placed  in  the  path 
of  progress!"  she  returned.  Her  eyes  were 
laughing,  but  her  voice  had  in  it  a  little  note 
of  tenderness.  "Will  you  do  something  for 
me?" 

"  Anything — everything." 

"  It 's  only  this,"  said  Barbara,  gently.     "  If 


jflower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


of 


a  Saint 


it  should  turn  out  the  other  way,  will  you  keep 
father  from  being  lonely?  Miss  Wynne  has 
promised  that  he  shall  never  want  for  any 
thing,  and,  at  the  most,  it  could  n't  be  long 
until  he  was  with  me  again,  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  would  you,  Roger?  Would  you  try  to 
take  my  place?" 

"Nobody  in  the  world  could  ever  take  your 
place,  but  I  'd  try — God  knows  I  'd  try.  Bar 
bara,  I  could  n't  bear  it,  if " 

"Hush.  There  isn't  any  'if.'  It's  all 
coming  right  to-morrow." 

The  full  moon  had  swung  slowly  up  out  of 
the  sea,  and  the  misty,  silvery  light  touched 
Barbara  lovingly.  Her  slender  hands,  crossed 
in  her  lap,  seemed  like  those  of  a  little  child. 
Her  deep  blue  eyes  were  lovelier  than  ever  in 
the  enchanted  light — they  had  the  calmness  of 
deep  waters  at  dawn,  untroubled  by  wind  or 
tide.  Around  her  face  her  golden  hair  shim 
mered  and  shone  like  a  halo.  She  had  the 
unearthly  beauty  of  a  saint. 

"Afterward?"  he  asked,  with  a  little  choke 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  '11  be  in  plaster  for  a  long  time,  and,  after 
that,  I  '11  have  to  learn  to  walk." 

"And  then?" 

"Work,"  she  said,  joyously."  Think  of  hav 
ing  all  the  rest  of  your  life  to  work  in,  with 
no  crutches!  And  if  Daddy  can  see  me — " 
she  stopped,  but  he  caught  the  wistfulness  in 


flu  tbe  (Barfcen 


139 


her  tone.  "The  first  thing,"  she  continued, 
"  I  'm  going  down  to  the  sea.  I  have  a  fancy 
to  go  alone." 

"  Have  you  never  been  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  never  been  outside  this  house 
and  garden  but  once  or  twice.  Have  you 
forgotten  ?  " 

All  the  things  he  might  have  done  came  to 
Roger,  remorsefully,  and  too  late.  He  might 
have  taken  Barbara  out  for  a  drive  almost  any 
time  during  the  last  eight  years.  She  could 
have  been  lifted  into  a  low  carriage  easily 
enough  and  she  had  never  even  been  to  the 
sea.  A  swift,  pitying  tenderness  made  his 
heart  ache. 

"Nobody  ever  thought  of  it,"  said  Barbara, 
soothingly,  as  though  she  had  read  his  thought, 
"and,  besides,  I  've  been  too  busy,  except  Sun 
days.  But  sometimes,  when  I  've  heard  the 
shore  singing  as  the  tide  came  in,  and  seen 
the  gulls  fly  past  my  window,  and  smelled  the 
salt  mist — oh,  I  Ve  wanted  it  so." 

"  I  'd  have  taken  you,  if  I  had  n't  been  such 
a  brute  as  to  forget." 

"  You  Ve  brought  me  more  than  the  sea, 
Roger.  Think  of  all  the  books  you  Ve  carried 
back  and  forth  so  patiently  all  these  years. 
You  Ve  done  more  for  me  than  anybody  in 
the  world,  in  some  ways.  You  Ve  given  me 
the  magic  carpet  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  only 
it  was  a  book,  instead  of  a  rug.  Through  your 


/Bore  tban 
tbe  Sea 


140 


ff  lower  of  tbe  Dusfc 


JBarvtcr 
Srofcen 


kindness,  I  've  travelled  over  most  of  the 
world,  I  've  met  many  of  the  really  great  people 
face  to  face,  I  've  lived  in  all  ages  and  all  coun 
tries,  and  I  've  learned  to  know  the  world  as  it 
is  now.  What  more  could  one  person  do  for 
another  than  you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

"Barbara?"  It  was  Miriam's  voice,  calling 
softly  from  an  upper  window.  "  You  must  n't 
stay  up  late.  Remember  to-morrow." 

"All  right,  Aunty."  Her  answer  carried 
with  it  no  hint  of  impatience.  "  I  forgot  that 
we  were  n't  in  the  house,"  she  added,  to  Roger, 
in  a  low  tone. 

"  Must  I  go  ?  "  To-night,  for  some  reason,  he 
could  not  bear  even  the  thought  of  leaving  her. 

"Not  just  yet."  I  've  been  thinking,"  she 
continued,  in  a  swift  whisper,  "about  my 
mother  and — your  father.  Of  course  we  can't 
understand — we  only  know  that  they  cared. 
And,  in  a  way,  it  makes  you  and  me  something 
like  brother  and  sister,  does  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  does.  I  had  n't  thought  of 
that." 

All  at  once,  the  barrier  that  seemed  to  have 
been  between  them  crashed  down  and  was 
forgotten.  Mysteriously,  Roger  was  very  sure 
that  those  four  days  had  held  no  wrong — no 
betrayal  of  another's  trust.  His  father  would 
not  have  done  anything  which  was  not  abso 
lutely  right.  The  thought  made  him  straighten 
'himself  proudly.  And  the  mother  of  the  girl 


f  n  tbe  (Barfcen 


141 


who  leaned  toward  him,  with  her  beautiful  soul 
shining  in  her  deep  eyes,  could  have  been 
nothing  less  than  an  angel. 

"To-morrow" — began  Roger. 

"To-morrow  was  made  for  me.  God  is 
giving  me  a  day  to  be  made  straight  in.  To 
morrow  is  mine,  but — will  you  come  and  stay 
with  father?  Keep  him  away  from  the  house 
and  with  you, until — afterward?" 

"  I  will,  gladly/' 

Barbara  rose  and  Roger  picked  up  her 
crutches.  "  You  '11  never  have  to  do  that  for 
me  again,"  she  said,  as  she  took  them,  "but 
there  '11  be  lots  of  other  things.  Will  you  take 
in  the  chairs,  please  ?" 

A  lump  was  in  his  throat  and  he  could  not 
speak.  When  he  came  out,  after  having 
made  a  brief  but  valiant  effort  to  recover  his 
self-control,  Barbara  was  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  leaning  on  her  crutches,  with  the 
moon  shining  full  upon  her  face. 

Roger  went  to  her.  "Barbara,"  he  said, 
huskily,  "my  father  loved  your  mother.  For 
the  sake  of  that,  and  for  to-morrow,  will  you 
kiss  me  to-night?" 

Smiling,  Barbara  lifted  her  face  and  gave 
him  her  lips  as  simply  and  sweetly  as  a  child. 
"Good-night,''  she  said,  softly,  but  he  could 
not  answer,  for,  at  the  touch,  the  white  fire 
burned  in  his  blood  and  the  white  magic  of 
life's  Maytime  went,  singing,  through  his  soul. 


morrow  is 
flMtic  " 


142 


Sbafcow 


XI 


Barbara's  "Go^morrow" 

THE  shimmering  white  silence  of  noon  lay 
upon  the  land.  Bees  hummed  in  the 
clover,  gorgeous  butterflies  floated  drowsily 
over  the  meadows,  and  far  in  the  blue  distance 
a  meadow-lark  scattered  his  golden  notes  like 
rain  upon  the  fields. 

The  world  teemed  with  life,  and  yet  a  cold 
shadow,  as  of  approaching  death,  darkened 
the  souls  of  two  who  walked  together  in  the 
dusty  road  that  led  from  the  hills  to  the  sea. 
The  old  man  leaned  heavily  upon  the  arm  of 
the  younger,  and  his  footsteps  faltered.  The 
young  man's  face  was  white  and  he  saw  dimly, 
as  through  a  mist,  but  he  tried  to  keep  his 
voice  even. 

From  the  open  windows  of  the  little  grey 
house  came  the  deadly  sweet  smell  of  anaes 
thetics,  heavy  with  prescience  and  pain.  It 
dominated,  instantly,  all  the  blended  Summer 
fragrances  and  brought  terror  to  them  both. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it,"  said  Ambrose  North, 


Barbara's  Uomorrow 


143 


miserably.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  have  my  baby 
hurt." 

"  She  is  n't  being  hurt  now/'  answered 
Roger,  with  dry  lips.  "  She  's  asleep." 

"  It  may  be  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 
If  you  loved  Barbara,  you  would  understand." 

The  boy's  senses,  exquisitely  alive  and  quiv 
ering,  merged  suddenly  into  one  unspeakable 
hurt.  If  he  loved  Barbara!  Ah,  did  he  not 
love  her?  What  of  last  night,  when  he  walked 
up  and  down  in  that  selfsame  road  until  dawn, 
alone  with  the  wonder  and  fear  and  joy  of  it, 
and  unutterably  dreading  the  to-morrow  that 
had  so  swiftly  become  to-day. 

"I  was  a  fool,"  muttered  Ambrose  North. 
"  I  was  a  fool  to  give  my  consent." 

"  It  was  her  choice,"  the  boy  reminded  him, 
"and  when  she  walks " 

"When  she  walks,  it  may  be  in  the  City 
Not  Made  With  Hands.  If  I  had  said  'no,' 
we  should  not  be  out  here  now,  while  she — " 
The  tears  streamed  over  his  wrinkled  cheeks 
and  his  bowed  shoulders  shook. 

"Don't,"  pleaded  Roger.  " It 's  all  for  the 
best — it  must  be  all  for  the  best." 

Neither  of  them  saw  Eloise  approaching  as 
she  came  up  the  road  from  the  hotel.  She  was 
in  white,  as  usual,  bareheaded,  and  she  carried 
a  white  linen  parasol.  She  went  to  them, 
calling  out  brightly,  "  Good  morning ! " 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  old  man. 


Bit  for  tbe 

JBest 


144 


f  lower  of  tbe  H>usfe 


Hllan  is 
ttbcrc 


"It  must  be  Miss  Wynne,  I  think." 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Eloise,  when  she 
joined  them.  "What  is  the  matter?" 

The  blind  man  could  not  speak,  but  he 
pointed  toward  the  house  with  a  shaking 
hand. 

"  It 's  Barbara,  you  know,"  said  Roger. 
"They're  in  there — cutting  her."  The  last 
words  were  almost  a  whisper. 

"  But  you  must  n't  worry,"  cried  Eloise. 
"Nothing  can  go  wrong.  Why,  Allan  is 
there." 

Insensibly  her  confidence  in  Allan  and  the 
clear  ring  of  her  voice  relieved  the  unbearable 
tension.  Surely,  Barbara  could  not  die  if 
Allan  were  there. 

"  It 's  hard,  I  know,"  Eloise  went  on,  in  her 
cool,  even  tones,  "but  there  is  no  doubt  about 
the  ending.  Allan  is  one  of  the  few  really  great 
surgeons — he  has  done  wonderful  things.  He 
has  done  things  that  everyone  else'  said  were 
impossible.  Barbara  will  walk  and  be  as 
straight  and  strong  as  any  of  us.  Think  what 
it  will  mean  to  her  after  twenty  years  of  help 
lessness.  How  fine  it  will  be  to  see  her  without 
the  crutches." 

"I  have  never  minded  the  crutches,"  said 
Roger.  "  I  do  not  want  her  changed." 

"  I  cannot  see  her,"  sighed  Ambrose  North. 
"  I  have  never  seen  my  baby." 

"  But  you  're  going  to,"  Eloise  assured  him, 


^Barbara's  "tomorrow" 


"for  Allan  says  so,  and  whatever  Allan  says  is 
true." 

At  length,  she  managed  to  lead  them  farther 
away,  though  not  out  of  sight  of  the  house, 
and  they  all  sat  down  on  the  grass.  She 
talked  continually  and  cheerfully,  but  the 
atmosphere  was  tense  with  waiting.  Ambrose 
North  bowed  his  grey  head  in  his  hands,  and 
Roger,  still  pale,  did  not  once  take  his  eyes 
from  the  door  of  the  little  grey  house. 

After  what  seemed  an  eternity,  someone 
came  out.  It  was  one  of  Allan's  assistants. 
A  nurse  followed,  and  put  a  black  bag  into  the 
buggy  which  was  waiting  outside.  Roger  was 
on  his  feet  instantly,  watching. 

"Sit  down,"  commanded  Eloise,  coolly. 
"Allan  can  see  us  from  here,  and  he  will  come 
and  tell  us." 

Ambrose  North  lifted  his  grey  head.  "  Have 
they — finished — with  her?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Eloise.  "  Be  pa 
tient  just  a  little  longer,  please  do." 

Outwardly  she  was  calm,  but,  none  the  less, 
a  great  sob  of  relief  almost  choked  her  when 
Doctor  Conrad  came  across  the  road  to  them, 
swinging  his  black  bag,  and  called  out,  in  a 
voice  high  with  hope,  "All  right!" 


The  sky  was  a  wonderful  blue,  but  the  colour 
of  the  sea  was  deeper  still.     The  vast  reaches 


BH  IRfgbt 


146 


flower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Ube 

Cbangel* 
XEowec 


of  sand  were  as  white  as  the  blown  snow,  and 
the  Tower  of  Cologne  had  never  been  so  fair 
as  it  was  to-day.  The  sun  shone  brightly  on 
the  clear  glass  arches  that  made  the  cupola, 
and  the  golden  bells  swayed  back  and  forth 
silently. 

Barbara  was  trying  to  climb  up  to  the  cupola, 
but  her  feet  were  weary  and  she  paused  often 
to  rest.  The  rooms  that  opened  off  from  the 
various  landings  of  the  winding  stairway  were 
lovelier  than  ever.  The  furnishings  had  been 
changed  since  she  was  last  there,  and  each 
room  was  made  to  represent  a  different  flower. 

There  was  a  rose  room,  all  in  pink  and  green, 
a  pond-lily  room  in  green  and  white,  a  violet 
room  in  green  and  lavender,  and  a  gorgeous 
suite  of  rooms  which  someway  seemed  like  a 
great  bouquet  of  nasturtiums.  But,  strangely, 
there  was  no  fragrance  of  cologne  in  the  Tower. 
The  bottles  were  all  on  the  mantels,  as  usual, 
but  Barbara  could  not  open  any  of  them.  In 
stead,  there  was  a  heavy,  sweet,  sickening 
smell  from  which  she  could  not  escape,  though 
she  went  continually  from  room  to  room.  It 
followed  her  like  some  evil  thing  that  threat 
ened  to  overpower  her. 

The  Boy  who  had  always  been  beside  her, 
and  whose  face  she  could  not  see,  was  still 
in  the  Tower,  but  he  was  far  away,  with  his 
back  toward  her.  He  seemed  to  be  suffering 
and  Barbara  tried  to  get  to  him  to  comfort 


^Barbara's  "  ^Tomorrow " 


147 


him,  but  some  unforeseen  obstacle  inevitably 
loomed  up  in  her  path. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  Tower,  and 
most  of  them  were  old  friends,  but  there  were 
some  new  faces.  Her  father  was  there,  of 
course,  and  all  the  brave  knights  and  lovely 
ladies  of  whom  she  had  read  in  her  books.  Miss 
Wynne  was  there  and  she  had  never  been  in 
the  Tower  before,  but  Barbara  smiled  at  her 
and  was  glad,  though  she  wished  they  might 
have  had  cologne  instead  of  the  sickening 
smell  which  grew  more  deadly  every  minute. 

A  grave,  silent  young  man  whose  demeanour 
was  oddly  at  variance  with  his  red  hair  was 
there  also.  He  had  just  come  and  it  seemed 
that  he  was  a  doctor.  Barbara  had  heard  his 
name  but  could  not  remember  it.  There  were 
also  two  young  women  in  blue  and  white 
striped  uniforms  which  were  very  neat  and 
becoming.  They  wore  white  caps  and  smiled 
at  Barbara.  She  had  heard  their  names,  too, 
but  she  had  forgotten. 

None  of  them  seemed  to  mind  the  heavy 
odour  which  oppressed  her  so.  She  opened 
the  windows  in  the  Tower  and  the  cool  air 
came  in  from  the  blue  sea,  but  it  changed 
nothing. 

"Come,  Boy,"  she  called  across  the  inter 
vening  mist.  "  Let 's  go  up  to  the  cupola  and 
ring  all  the  golden  bells." 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear,  so  she  called  again, 


people  in 

tbe 
Uower 


jflower  ot  tbe  Dusfc 


and  again,  but  there  was  no  response.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  failed  to  answer  her, 
and  it  made  her  angry. 

"Then,"  cried  Barbara,  shrilly,  "if  you  don't 
want  to  come,  you  need  n't,  so  there.  But  I  'm 
going.  Do  you  hear?  I 'm  going.  I'm  going 
up  to  ring  those  bells  if  I  have  to  go  alone." 

Still,  the  Boy  did  not  answer,  and  Barbara, 
her  heart  warm  with  resentment,  began  to  climb 
the  winding  stairs.  She  did  not  hurry,  for  pict 
ures  of  castles,  towers,  and  beautiful  ladies 
were  woven  in  the  tapestry  that  lined  the  walls. 

She  came,  at  last,  to  the  highest  landing. 
There  was  only  one  short  flight  between  her 
and  the  cupola.  The  clear  glass  arches  were 
dazzling  in  the  sun  and  the  golden  bells  swayed 
temptingly.  But  a  blinding,  overwhelming 
fog  drifted  in  from  the  sea,  and  she  was  afraid 
to  move  by  so  much  as  a  step.  She  turned  to 
go  back,  and  fell,  down — down — down — into 
v/hat  seemed  eternity. 

Before  long,  the  cloud  began  to  lift.  She 
could  see  a  vague  suggestion  of  blue  and  white 
through  it  now.  The  man  with  the  red  hair 
was  talking,  loudly  and  unconcernedly,  to  a 
tall  man  beside  him  whose  face  was  obscured 
by  the  mist.  The  voices  beat  upon  Barbara's 
ears  with  physical  pain.  She  tried  to  speak, 
to  ask  them  to  stop,  but  the  words  would  not 
come.  Then  she  raised  her  hand,  weakly,  and 
silence  came  upon  the  room. 


Barbara's  "tomorrow"  149 


Out  of  the  fog  rose  Doctor  Allan  Conrad. 
He  was  tired  and  there  was  a  strained  look 
about  his  eyes,  but  he  smiled  encouragingly. 
He  leaned  over  her  and  she  smiled,  very  faintly, 
back  at  him. 

"  Brave  little  girl,"  he  said.  "  It 's  all  right 
now.  All  we  ever  hoped  for  is  coming  very 
soon."  Then  he  went  out,  and  she  closed  her 
eyes.  When  she  was  again  conscious  of  her 
surroundings,  it  was  the  next  day,  but  she 
thought  she  had  been  asleep  only  a  few 
minutes. 

At  first  there  was  numbness  of  mind  and 
body.  Then,  with  every  heart-beat  and  throb 
by  throb,  came  unbearable  agony.  A  trem 
bling  old  hand  strayed  across  her  face  and  her 
father's  voice,  deep  with  love  and  longing, 
whispered:  "Barbara,  my  darling!  Does  it 
hurt  you  now  ?" 

"Just  a  little,  Daddy,  but  it  won't  last  long. 
I  '11  be  better  very  soon." 

One  of  the  blue  and  white  nurses  came  to  her 
and  said,  gently,  "Is  it  very  bad,  Miss 
North?" 

"Pretty  bad,"  she  gasped.  Then  she  tried 
to  smile,  but  her  white  lips  quivered  piteously. 
The  woman  with  the  kind,  calm  face  came  back 
with  a  shining  bit  of  silver  in  her  hand.  There 
was  a  sharp  stab  in  Barbara's  arm,  and  then, 
with  incredible  quickness,  peace. 

"What  was  it?"  she  asked,  wondering. 


1  5o 


fflowet  ot  tbe  Busfe 


of 

tbe  Sea 


"Poppies,      answered    the    nurse.     "They 

,    .        £  r   i  » 

bring  forgetful  ness. 

"  Barbara,"  said  the  old  man,  sadly,  "  I  wish 
I  could  help  you  bear  it  -  " 

"So  you  can,  Daddy/' 

"But  how?" 

"  Don't  be  afraid  for  me  —  it  's  coming  out 
all  right.  And  make  me  a  little  song." 

"  I  could  n't—  to-day." 

"There  is  always  a  song,"  she  reminded  him. 
"Think  how  many  times  you  have  said  to  me, 
'Always  make  a  song,  Barbara,  no  matter  what 
comes/  " 

The  old  man  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
"What  about,  dear?" 

"About  the  sea." 

"The  sea  is  so  vast  that  it  reaches  around  the 
world,"  he  began,  hesitatingly.  "  It  sings  upon 
the  shore  of  every  land,  from  the  regions  of 
perpetual  ice  and  snow  to  the  far  tropic  islands, 
where  the  sun  forever  shines.  As  it  lies  under 
the  palms,  all  blue  and  silver,  crooning  so  softly 
that  you  can  scarcely  hear  it,  you  would  not 
think  it  was  the  same  sea  that  yesterday  was 
raging  upon  an  ice-bound  shore. 

"If  you  listen  to  its  ever-changing  music 
you  can  hear  almost  anything  you  please,  for 
the  sea  goes  everywhere.  Ask,  and  the  sea 
shall  sing  to  you  of  the  frozen  north  where  half 
the  year  is  darkness  and  the  impassable  waste 
of  waters  sweeps  across  the  pole.  Ask,  and 


JSarbara's  "tomorrow"  151 

you  shall  hear  of  the  distant  islands,  where        °»<j  o 
there  has  never  been  snow,  and  the  tide  may 
even  bring  to  you  a  bough  of  olive  or  a  leaf  of 
palm. 

"Ask,  and  the  sea  will  give  you  red  and 
white  coral,  queer  shells,  mystically  filled  with 
its  own  weird  music,  and  treasures  of  fairy- 
like  lace-work  and  bloom.  It  will  sing  to  you 
of  cool,  green  caves  where  the  waves  creep 
sleepily  up  to  the  rocks  and  drift  out  drowsily 
with  the  ebb  of  the  tide. 

"  It  will  sing  of  grey  waves  changing  to  foam 
in  the  path  of  the  wind,  and  bring  you  the  cry 
of  the  white  gulls  that  speed  ahead  of  the 
storm.  It  will  sing  to  you  of  mermen  and  mer 
maids,  chanting  their  own  melodies  to  the 
accompaniment  of  harps  with  golden  strings. 
Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  the  songs  of  many 
lands,  merged  into  one  by  the  sea  that  unites 
them  all. 

"It  bears  upon  its  breast  the  great  white 
ships  that  carry  messages  from  one  land  to 
another.  Silks  and  spices  and  pearls  are 
taken  from  place  to  place  along  the  vast  high 
ways  of  the  sea.  And  if,  sometimes,  in  a 
blinding  tumult  of  terror  and  despair,  the  men 
and  ships  go  down,  the  sea,  remorsefully, 
brings  back  the  broken  spars,  and,  at  last, 
gives  up  the  dead. 

"  Yet  it  is  always  beautiful,  whether  you  see 
it  grey  or  blue;  whether  it  is  mad  with  rage  or 


152 


jflowcr  ot  tbe  Busl; 


Hbc 
©ominant 

Cbotb 


moaning  with  pain,  or  only  crooning  a  lullaby 
as  the  world  goes  to  sleep.  And  in  all  the 
wonderful  music  there  is  one  dominant  chord, 
for  the  song  of  the  sea,  as  of  the  world,  is  Love. 

"  Long  ago,  Barbara — so  long  ago  that  it  is 
written  in  only  the  very  oldest  books,  Love  was 
born  in  the  foam  of  the  sea  and  came  to  dwell 
upon  the  shore.  And  so  the  sea,  singing  for 
ever  of  Love,  creeps  around  the  world  upon 
an  unending  quest.  When  the  tide  sweeps  in 
with  the  cold  grey  waves,  foam-crested,  or  in 
shining  sapphire  surges  that  break  into  pearls, 
it  is  only  the  sea  searching  eagerly  for  the  lost. 
So  the  loneliness  and  the  beauty,  the  longing 
and  the  pain,  belong  to  Love  as  to  the  sea.'* 

"Oh,  Daddy,"  breathed  Barbara,  "I  want 
it  so." 

"What,  dear?    The  sea?" 

"Yes.  The  music  and  the  colour  and  the 
vastness  of  it.  I  can  hardly  wait  until  I  can 

go-" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me?"  asked  the  old  man.  "There 
would  have  been  some  way,  if  I  had  only 
known." 

"  I  don't  know,  Daddy.  I  think  I  've  been 
waiting  for  this  way,  for  it  's  the  best  way,  after 
all.  When  I  can  walk  and  you  can  see,  we  '11 
go  down  together,  shall  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  surely." 

"You  must  help  me   be  patient,  Daddy. 


llSarbara's  "  TEo*morrow  " 


153 


It  will  be  so  hard  for  me  to  lie  here,  doing 
nothing."  8au7>ut 

"  I  wish  I  could  read  to  you." 

"  You  can  talk  to  me,  and  that 's  better. 
Roger  will  come  over  some  day  and  read  to 
me,  when  he  has  time." 

"He  was  with  me  yesterday,  while " 

"  I  know,"  she  answered,  softly.  "  I  asked 
him.  I  thought  it  would  make  it  easier  for 
you." 

"  My  baby !  You  thought  of  your  old  father 
even  then  ?  " 

"I  'm  always  thinking  of  you,  Daddy,  be 
cause  you  and  I  are  all  each  other  has  got. 
That  sounds  queer,  but  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

The  calm,  strong  young  woman  in  blue 
and  white  came  back  into  the  room.  "She 
must  n't  talk,"  she  said,  to  the  blind  man. 
"To-morrow,  perhaps.  Come  away  now." 

"Don't  take  him  away  from  me,"  pleaded 
Barbara.  "We  '11  be  very  good  and  not  say 
a  single  word,  won't  we  ?  " 

"Not  a  word,"  he  answered,  "if  it  isn't 
best." 

The  afternoon  wore  away  to  sunset,  the 
shadows  grew  long,  and  Barbara  lay  quietly, 
with  her  little  hand  in  his.  Long  lines  of 
light  came  over  the  hills  and  brought  into  the 
room  some  subtle  suggestion  of  colour.  Grad 
ually,  the  pain  came  back,  so  keenly  that  it  was 


154 


fflower  of  tbe  2Du0fe 


peaceful 
Sleep 


not  to  be  borne,  and  the  kind  woman  with  the 
bit  of  silver  in  her  hand  leaned  over  the  bed 
once  more.  Quickly,  the  poppies  brought 
their  divine  gift  of  peace  again.  And  so, 
Barbara  slept. 

Then  Ambrose  North  gently  loosened  the 
still  fingers  that  were  interlaced  with  his,  bent 
over,  and,  so  gently  as  not  to  waken  her,  took 
her  boy-lover's  kiss  from  her  lips. 


XII 

flMriam 

MIRIAM  moved  about  the  house,  silently,      302  am> 
as  always.     She  had  assumed  the  extra 
burden  of  Barbara's  helplessness  as  she  as 
sumed   everything — without    comment,    and 
with  outward  calm. 

Only  her  dark  eyes,  that  burned  and  glittered 
so  strangely,  gave  hint  of  the  restlessness 
within .  She  served  Ambrose  North  with  stead 
fast  and  unfailing  devotion;  she  waited  upon 
Barbara  mechanically,  but  readily.  An  ob 
server  could  not  have  detected  any  real  differ 
ence  in  her  bearing  toward  the  two,  yet 
the  service  of  one  was  a  joy,  the  other  a 
duty. 

After  the  first  week  the  nurse  who  had 
remained  with  Barbara  had  gone  back  to  the 
city.  In  this  short  time,  Miriam  had  learned 
much  from  her.  She  knew  how  to  change  a 
sheet  without  disturbing  the  patient  very 
much;  she  could  give  Barbara  both  food  and 
drink  as  she  lay  flat  upon  her  back,  and  ease 


156 


jf lower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


H  Xlvtiu 
flmagc 


her  aching  body  a  little  in  spite  of  the  plaster 
cast. 

Ambrose  North  restlessly  haunted  the  house 
and  refused  to  leave  Barbara's  bedside  unless 
she  was  asleep.  Often  she  feigned  slumber  to 
give  him  opportunity  to  go  outdoors  for  the 
exercise  he  was  accustomed  to  taking.  And 
so  the  life  of  the  household  moved  along  in  its 
usual  channels. 

As  she  lay  helpless,  with  her  pretty  colour 
gone  and  the  great  braids  of  golden  hair  hang 
ing  down  on  either  side,  Barbara  looked  more 
like  her  dead  mother  than  ever.  Suffering  had 
brought  maturity  to  her  face  and  sometimes 
even  Miriam  was  startled  by  the  resemblance. 
One  day  Barbara  had  asked,  thoughtfully, 
"Aunty,  do  I  look  like  my  mother?"  And 
Miriam  had  answered,  harshly,  "  You  're  the 
living  image  of  her,  if  you  want  to  know." 

Miriam  repeatedly  told  herself  that  Con 
stance  had  wronged  her — that  Ambrose  North 
had  belonged  to  her  until  the  younger  girl 
came  from  school  with  her  pretty,  laughing 
ways.  He  had  never  had  eyes  for  Miriam 
after  he  had  once  seen  Constance,  and,  in  an 
incredibly  short  time,  they  had  been  married. 

Miriam  had  been  forced  to  stand  by  and  see 
it;  she  had  made  dainty  garments  for  Con 
stance's  trousseau,  and  had  even  been  obliged 
to  serve  as  maid  of  honour  at  the  wedding. 
She  had  seen,  day  by  day,  the  man's  love 


flbfriam  157 


increase  and  the  girl's  fancy  wane,  and,  after 
his  blindness  came  upon  him,  Constance  would 
often  have  been  cruelly  thoughtless  had  not 
Miriam  sternly  held  her  to  her  own  ideal  of 
wifely  duty. 

Now,  when  she  had  taken  a  mother's  place 
to  Barbara,  and  worked  for  the  blind  man  as 
his  wife  would  never  have  dreamed  of  doing, 
she  saw  the  faithless  one  worshipped  almost 
as  a  household  god.  The  power  to  disil 
lusionise  North  lay  in  her  hands — of  that  she 
was  very  sure.  What  if  she  should  come  to  him 
some  day  with  the  letter  Constance  had  left 
for  another  man  and  which  she  had  never 
delivered?  What  if  she  should  open  it,  at  his 
bidding,  and  read  him  the  burning  sentences 
Constance  had  written  to  another  during  her 
last  hour  on  earth?  Knowing,  beyond  doubt, 
that  Constance  was  faithless,  would  he  at  last 
turn  to  the  woman  he  had  deserted  for  the 
sake  of  a  pretty  face  ?  The  question  racked 
Miriam  by  night  and  by  day. 

And,  as  always,  the  dead  Constance,  mute, 
accusing,  bitterly  reproachful,  haunted  her 
dreams.  Her  fear  of  it  became  an  obsession. 
As  Barbara  grew  daily  more  to  resemble  her 
mother,  Miriam's  position  became  increasingly 
difficult  and  complex. 

Sometimes  she  waited  outside  the  door  until 
she  could  summon  courage  to  go  in  to  Barbara, 
who  lay,  helpless,  in  the  very  room  where  her 


158 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfc 


Ube  One 
JSetra^al 


mother  had  died.  Miriam  never  entered  with 
out  seeing  upon  the  dressing  table  those  two 
envelopes,  one  addressed  to  Ambrose  North 
and  one  to  herself.  Her  own  envelope  was 
bulky,  since  it  contained  two  letters  beside  the 
short  note  which  might  have  been  read  to  any 
body.  These  two,  with  seals  unbroken,  were 
safely  put  away  in  Miriam's  room. 

One  was  addressed  to  Laurence  Austin. 
Miriam  continually  told  herself  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  deliver  it — that  the  person 
to  whom  it  was  addressed  was  dead.  She  tried 
persistently  to  forget  the  five  years  that  had 
intervened  between  Constance's  death  and  his. 
For  five  years,  he  had  lived  almost  directly 
across  the  street  and  Miriam  saw  him  daily. 
Yet  she  had  not  given  him  the  letter,  though 
the  vision  of  Constance,  dumbly  pleading  for 
some  boon,  had  distressed  her  almost  every 
night  until  Laurence  Austin  died. 

After  that,  there  had  been  peace — but  only 
for  a  little  while.  Constance  still  came,  though 
intermittently,  and  reproached  Miriam  for 
betraying  her  trust. 

As  Barbara's  twenty-second  birthday  ap 
proached,  Miriam  sometimes  wondered  whether 
Constance  would  not  cease  to  haunt  her  after 
the  other  letter  was  delivered.  She  had  been 
faithful  in  all  things  but  one — surely  she  might 
be  forgiven  the  one  betrayal.  The  envelope 
was  addressed,  in  a  clear,  unfaltering  hand: 


flDirtam 


159 


"To  My  Daughter  Barbara.  To  be  opened 
upon  her  twenty-second  birthday."  In  her 
brief  note  to  Miriam,  Constance  had  asked  her 
to  destroy  it  unopened  if  Barbara  should  not 
live  until  the  appointed  day. 

She  had  said  nothing,  however,  about  the 
other  letter—ihad  not  even  alluded  to  its  ex 
istence.  Yet  there  it  was,  apparently  written 
upon  a  single  sheet  of  paper  and  enclosed  in  an 
envelope  firmly  sealed  with  wax.  The  mono 
gram,  made  of  the  interlaced  initials  "C.  N.," 
btill  lingered  upon  the  seal.  For  twenty  years 
and  more  the  letter  had  waited,  unread,  and 
the  hands  that  once  would  eagerly  have  torn 
it  open  were  long  since  made  one  with  the  all- 
hiding,  all-absolving  dust. 


fit  Supper 


At  supper,  Ambrose  North  still  had  his  fine 
linen  and  his  Satsuma  cup.  Miriam  sat  at 
the  other  end,  where  the  coarse  cloth  and  the 
heavy  dishes  were.  She  used  the  fine  china 
for  Barbara,  also,  washing  it  carefully  six  times 
every  day. 

The  blind  man  ate  little,  for  he  was  lonely 
without  the  consciousness  that  Barbara  sat, 
smiling,  across  the  table  from  him. 

"Is  she  asleep?"  he  asked,  of  Miriam. 

"Yes." 

"She  has  n't  had  her  supper  yet,  has  she?" 

"No." 


i6o 


jflower  of  tbe  Busk 


TTbc  Same 

$fe 
Question 


"When  she  wakes,  will  you  let  me  take  it 
up  to  her?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  want  to." 

"Miriam,  tell  me — does  Barbara  look  like 
her  mother?"  His  voice  was  full  of  love  and 
longing. 

"  There  may  be  a  slight  resemblance,"  Miriam 
admitted. 

"But  how  much  ?" 

A  curious,  tigerish  impulse  possessed  Miriam. 
He  had  asked  her  this  same  question  many 
times  and  she  had  always  eluded  him  with  a 
vague  generalisation. 

"  How  much  does  she  resemble  her  mother?" 
he  insisted.  "You  told  me  once  that  they 
were  'something  alike/  ' 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  answered  Mir 
iam.  She  was  breathing  hard  and  her  eyes 
glittered.  "  Barbara  has  changed  lately." 

"  Don't  hide  the  truth  for  fear  of  hurting  me," 
he  pleaded.  "Once  for  all  I  ask  you — does 
Barbara  resemble  her  mother?" 

For  a  moment  Miriam  paused,  then  all  her 
hatred  of  the  dead  woman  rose  up  within  her. 
"No,"  she  said,  coldly.  "Their  hair  and  eyes 
are  nearly  the  same  colour,  but  they  are  not 
in  the  least  alike.  Why?  What  difference 
does  it  make?" 

"None,"  sighed  the  blind  man.  "But  I  am 
glad  to  have  the  truth  at  last,  and  I  thank  you. 
Sometimes  I  have  fancied,  when  Barbara  spoke, 


rtMrtam 


that  it  was  Constance  talking  to  me.     It  would 

.  .   .  .    T  fieautful 

have  been  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  have 
had  my  baby  the  living  image  of  her  mother, 
since  I  am  to  see  again,  but  it  is  all  right  as 
it  is." 

Since  he  was  to  see !  Miriam  had  not  counted 
upon  that  possibility,  and  she  clenched  her 
hands  in  swift  remorse.  If  he  should  discover 
that  she  had  lied  to  him,  he  would  never  for 
give  her,  and  she  would  lose  what  little  regard 
he  had  for  her.  He  had  a  Puritan  insistence 
upon  the  literal  truth. 

"  How  beautiful  Constance  was,"  he  sighed. 
An  inarticulate  murmur  escaped  from  Miriam, 
which  he  took  for  full  assent. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anyone  half  so  beautiful, 
Miriam?" 

Her  throat  was  parched,  but  Miriam  forced 
herself  to  whisper,  "No."  This  much  was 
truth. 

"  How  sweet  she  was  and  what  pretty  ways 
she  had,"  he  went  on.  "Do  you  remember 
how  lovely  she  was  in  her  wedding  gown?" 

Again  Miriam  forced  herself  to  answer, 
"Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  people  said  we  were 
mismated — that  a  man  of  fifty  could  never 
hope  to  keep  the  love  of  a  girl  of  twenty,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  world?" 

"  I  remember,"  muttered  Miriam. 

"And  it  was  false,  wasn't  it?"  he  asked, 


162 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusfc 


Constance 


hungering  for  assurance.  "Constance  loved 
me— do  you  remember  how  dearly  she  loved 
me?" 

A  thousand  words  struggled  for  utterance, 
but  Miriam  could  not  speak  just  then.  She 
longed,  as  never  before,  to  tear  open  the  en 
velope  addressed  to  Laurence  Austin  and  read 
to  North  the  words  his  beloved  Constance  had 
written  to  another  man  before  she  took  her 
own  life.  She  longed  to  tell  him  how,  for 
months  previous,  she  had  followed  Constance 
when  she  left  the  house,  and  discovered  that 
she  had  a  trysting-place  down  on  the  shore. 
He  wanted  the  truth,  did  he  ?  Very  well,  he 
should  have  it — the  truth  without  mercy. 

"Constance,"  she  began,  huskily,  "Con 
stance  loved " 

"  I  know,"  interrupted  Ambrose  North.  "  I 
know  how  dearly  she  loved  me  up  to  the  very 
last.  Even  Barbara,  baby  that  she  was,  felt 
it.  She  remembers  it  still." 

Barbara's  bell  tinkled  upstairs  while  he  said 
the  last  words.  "She  wants  us,"  he  said,  his 
face  illumined  with  love.  "  If  you  will  prepare 
her  supper,  Miriam,  I  will  take  it  up." 

The  room  swayed  before  Miriam's  eyes  and 
her  senses  were  confused.  She  had  drawn  her 
dagger  to  strike  and  it  had  been  forced  back 
into  its  sheath  by  some  unseen  hand.  "  But 
I  will,"  she  repeated  to  herself  again  and  again 
as  her  trembling  hands  prepared  Barbara's 


/HMrfam  163 


tray.     "He  shall  know  the  truth — and  from 

me."  pofnteb 


"  Barbara/'  said  the  old  man,  as  he  entered 
the  room,  ''your  Daddy  has  brought  up  your 
supper." 

"  I  'm  glad,"  she  responded,  brightly.  "  I  'm 
very  hungry." 

"We  have  been  talking  downstairs  of  your 
mother,"  he  went  on,  as  he  set  down  the  tray. 
"Miriam  has  been  telling  me  how  beautiful 
she  was,  what  winning  ways  she  had,  and  how 
dearly  she  loved  us.  She  says  you  do  not 
look  at  all  like  her,  Barbara,  and  we  both  have 
been  thinking  that  you  did." 

Barbara  was  startled.  Only  a  few  days 
ago,  Aunt  Miriam  had  assured  her  that  she  was 
the  living  image  of  her  mother.  She  was  per 
plexed  and  disappointed.  Then  she  reflected 
that  when  she  had  asked  the  question  she  had 
been  very  ill  and  Aunt  Miriam  was  trying  to 
answer  in  a  way  that  pleased  her.  She  gener 
ously  forgave  the  deceit  for  the  sake  of  the 
kindly  motive  behind  it. 

"Dear  Aunt  Miriam,"  said  Barbara,  softly. 
"  How  good  she  has  been  to  us,  Daddy." 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  " I  do  not  know  what  we 
should  have  done  without  her.  I  want  to  do 
something  for  her,  dear.  Shall  we  buy  her  a 
diamond  ring,  or  some  pearls  ?  " 


164 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusk 


flDfvfam'a 
prater 


"We  '11  see,  Daddy.  When  I  can  walk,  and 
you  can  see,  we  shall  do  many  things  together 
that  we  cannot  do  now." 

The  old  man  bent  down  very  near  her. 
"Flower  of  the  Dusk,"  he  whispered,  "when 
may  I  go  ?" 

"Go  where,  Daddy?" 

"To  the  city,  you  know,  with  Doctor  Con 
rad.  "  I  want  to  begin  to  see." 

Barbara  patted  his  hand.  "When  I  am 
strong  enough  to  spare  you,"  she  said,  "  I  will 
let  you  go.  When  you  see  me,  I  want  to  be 
well  and  able  to  go  to  meet  you  without 
crutches.  Will  you  wait  until  then  ?" 

"I  want  to  see  my  baby.  I  do  not  care 
about  the  crutches,  now  that  you  are  to  get 
well.  I  want  to  see  you,  dear,  so  very,  very 
much." 

"Some  day,  Daddy,"  she  promised  him. 
"Wait  until  I  'm  almost  well,  won't  you?" 

"Just  as  you  say,  dear,  but  it  seems  so 
long." 

"  I  could  n't  spare  you  now,  Daddy.  I  want 
you  with  me  every  day." 


Though  long  unused  to  prayer,  Miriam  prayed 
that  night,  very  earnestly,  that  Ambrose  North 
might  not  recover  his  sight ;  that  he  might  never 
see  the  daughter  who  lived  and  spoke  in  the 
likeness  of  her  dead  mother.  It  was  long  past 


jfflMrtam 


165 


midnight  when  she  fell  asleep.  The  house  had 
been  quiet  for  several  hours. 

As  she  slept,  she  dreamed.  The  door  opened 
quietly,  yet  with  a  certain  authority,  and  Con 
stance,  in  her  grave-clothes,  came  into  her 
room.  The  white  gown  trailed  behind  her  as 
she  walked,  and  the  two  golden  braids,  so  like 
Barbara's,  hung  down  over  either  shoulder  and 
far  below  her  waist. 

She  fixed  her  deep,  sad  eyes  upon  Miriam, 
reproachfully,  as  always,  but  her  red  lips  were 
curled  in  a  mocking  smile.  "  Do  your  worst," 
she  seemed  to  say.  "You  cannot  harm  me 
now." 

The  vision  sat  down  in  a  low  chair  and  rocked 
back  and  forth,  slowly,  as  though  meditating. 
Occasionally,  she  looked  at  Miriam  doubtfully, 
but  the  mocking  smile  was  still  there.  At  last 
Constance  rose,  having  come,  apparently,  to 
some  definite  plan.  She  went  to  the  dresser, 
opened  the  lower  drawer,  and  reached  under 
the  pile  of  neatly-folded  clothing. 

Cold  as  ice,  Miriam  sprang  to  her  feet.  She 
was  wide  awake  now,  but  the  room  was  empty. 
The  door  was  open,  half-way,  and  she  could  not 
remember  whether  she  had  left  it  so  when  she 
went  to  bed.  She  had  always  kept  her  bed 
room  door  closed  and  locked,  but  since  Bar 
bara's  illness  had  left  it  at  least  ajar,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  hear  a  call  in  the  night. 

Shaken  like  an  aspen  in  a  storm,  Miriam 


Ubc 
Ufeion 


i66 


jFlovver  of  tbe  2Dusfe 


Ube  Seal 
Erofeen 


lighted  her  candle  and  stared  into  the  sha 
dows.  Nothing  was  there.  The  clock  ticked 
steadily — almost  maddeningly.  It  was  just 
four  o'clock. 

She,  too,  opened  the  lower  drawer  of  the 
dresser  and  thrust  her  hand  under  the  clothing. 
The  letters  were  still  there.  She  drew  them 
out,  her  hands  trembling,  and  read  the  super 
scriptions  with  difficulty,  for  the  words  danced, 
and  made  themselves  almost  illegible. 

Constance  was  coming  back  for  the  letters, 
then  ?  That  was  out  of  Miriam's  power  to 
prevent,  but  she  would  keep  the  knowledge  of 
their  contents — at  least  of  one.  She  thrust 
aside  contemptuously  the  letter  to  Barbara — 
she  cared  nothing  for  that. 

Taking  the  one  addressed  to  "  Mr.  Laurence 
Austin;  Kindness  of  Miss  Leonard,"  she  went 
back  to  bed,  taking  her  candle  to  the  small 
table  that  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  With 
forced  calmness,  she  broke  the  seal  which  the 
dead  fingers  had  made  so  long  ago,  opened  it 
shamelessly,  and  read  it. 

"  You  who  have  loved  me  since  the  beginning 
of  time,"  the  letter  began,  "will  understand 
and  forgive  me  for  what  I  do  to-day.  I  do  it 
because  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  go  on  and 
do  my  duty  by  those  who  need  me. 

"  If  there  should  be  meeting  past  the  grave, 
some  day  you  and  I  shall  come  together  again 


/iDtrtam  167 


with  no  barrier  between  us.  I  take  with  me 
the  knowledge  of  your  love,  which  has  sheltered 
and  strengthened  and  sustained  me  since  the 
day  we  first  met,  and  which  must  make  even 
a  grave  warm  and  sweet. 

"And,  remember  this — dead  though  I  am, 
I  love  you  still;  you  and  my  little  lame  baby 
who  needs  me  so  and  whom  I  must  leave  be 
cause  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  stay. 

"Through  life  and  in  death  and  eternally, 
"Yours, 

CONSTANCE/' 

In  the  letter  was  enclosed  a  long,  silken  tress 
of  golden  hair.  It  curled  around  Miriam's 
fingers  as  though  it  were  alive,  and  she  thrust 
it  from  her.  It  was  cold  and  smooth  and  sinu 
ous,  like  a  snake.  She  folded  up  the  letter, 
put  it  back  in  the  envelope  with  the  lock  of 
hair,  then  returned  it  to  its  old  hiding-place, 
with  Barbara's. 

"So,  Constance,"  she  said  to  herself,  "you 
came  for  the  letters?  Come  and  take  them 
when  you  like — I  do  not  fear  you  now." 

All  of  her  suspicions  were  crystallised  into 
certainty  by  this  one  page  of  proof.  Constance 
might  not  have  violated  the  letter  of  her 
marriage  vow — very  probably  had  not  even 
dreamed  of  it — but  in  spirit,  she  had  been 
false. 

"Come,    Constance,"    said    Miriam,   aloud; 


i68 


flower  of  tbe  Busk 


"come  and  take  your  letters.  When  the 
hour  comes,  I  shall  tell  him,  and  you  cannot 
keep  me  from  it." 

She  was  curiously  at  peace,  now,  and  no 
longer  afraid.  Her  dark  eyes  blazed  with 
triumph  as  she  lay  there  in  the  candle  light. 
The  tension  within  her  had  snapped  when 
suspicion  gave  way  to  absolute  knowledge. 
Thwarted  and  denied  and  pushed  aside  all 
her  life  by  Constance  and  her  memory,  at 
last  she  had  come  to  her  own. 


T 


XIII 

"THfloman  Suffrage" 

HERE  was  a  shuffling  step  on  the  stairway, 
accompanied  by  spasmodic  shrieks  and 
an  occasional  "ouch."  Roger  looked  up  from 
his  book  in  surprise  as  Miss  Mattie  made  her 
painful  way  into  the  room. 

"Why,  Mother.    What's  the   matter?" 

Miss  Mattie  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  had 
made  out  of  a  flour  barrel  and  screamed  as  she 
did  so.  "What  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Are 
you  ill?" 

"Roger,"  she  replied,  "my  back  is  either 
busted,  or  the  hinge  in  it  is  rusty  from  over 
work.  I  stooped  over  to  open  the  lower  drawer 
in  my  bureau,  and  when  I  come  to  rise  up,  I 
could  n't.  I  've  been  over  half  an  hour 
comin'  downstairs.  I  called  you  twice,  but 
you  did  n't  hear  me,  and  I  knowed  you  was 
readin',  so  I  thought  I  might  better  save  my 
voice  to  yell  with." 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 


169 


MM 

tibattie'0 
JSacft 


170  if  lower  of  tbe  S>usfe 

"About  the  first  thing  to  do,  I  take  it,  is  to 
put  down  that  book.  Now,  if  you  '11  put  on 
your  hat,  you  can  go  and  get  that  new-fangled 
doctor  from  the  city.  The  postmaster's  wife 
told  me  yesterday  that  he  'd  sent  Barbara  one 
of  them  souverine  postal  cards  and  said  on  it 
he  'd  be  down  last  night.  As  you  go,  you 
might  stop  and  tell  the  Norths  that  he  's 
comin',  for  they  don't  go  after  their  mail  much 
and  most  likely  it 's  still  there  in  the  box. 
Tell  Barbara  that  the  card  has  a  picture  of  a 
terrible  high  buildin'  on  it  and  the  street  is  full 
of  carriages,  both  horsed  and  unhorsed.  If 
he  can  make  the  lame  walk  and  the  blind 
see,  I  reckon  he  can  fix  my  back.  I  '11  set 
here." 

"Shan't  I  get  someone  to  stay  with  you 
while  I  'm  gone,  Mother?  I  don't  like  to  leave 
you  here  alone.  Miss  Miriam  would " 

"Miss  Miriam,"  interrupted  his  mother, 
"ain't  fit  company  for  a  horse  or  cow,  let  alone 
a  sufTerin'  woman.  She  just  sets  and  stares 
and  never  says  nothin'.  I  have  to  do  all  the 
talkin'  and  I  'm  in  no  condition  to  talk.  You 
run  along  and  let  me  set  here  in  peace.  It 
don't  hurt  so  much  when  I  set  still." 

Roger  obediently  started  on  his  errand,  but 
met  Doctor  Conrad  half-way.  The  two  had 
never  been  formally  introduced,  but  Roger 
knew  him,  and  the  Doctor  remembered  Roger 
as  "the  nice  boy"  who  was  with  Ambrose 


"WRomait  Suffrage" 


171 


North  and  Eloise  when  he  went  over  to  tell 
them  that  Barbara  was  all  right. 

"Why,  yes/'  said  Allan.  "  If  it 's  an  emer 
gency  case,  I  '11  come  there  first.  After  I  see 
what 's  the  matter,  I  '11  go  over  to  North's 
and  then  come  back.  I  seem  to  be  getting 
quite  a  practice  in  Riverdale." 

When  they  went  in,  Roger  introduced  Doctor 
Conrad  to  the  patient.  "  You  '11  excuse  my 
not  gettin'  up,"  said  Miss  Mattie,  "for  it 's 
about  the  gettin'  up  that  I  wanted  to  see  you. 
Roger,  you  run  away.  It  ain't  proper  for 
boys  to  be  standin'  around  listenin'  when 
woman  suffrage  is  bein'  discussed  by  the  only 
people  havin'  any  right  to  talk  of  it — women 
and  doctors." 

Roger  coloured  to  his  temples  as  he  took  his 
hat  and  hurried  out.  With  an  effort  Doctor 
Conrad  kept  his  face  straight,  but  his  eyes 
were  laughing. 

"Now,  what 's  wrong?"  asked  Allan,  briefly, 
as  Roger  closed  the  door. 

"It's  my  back,"  explained  the  patient. 
"  It 's  busted.  It  busted  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Was  it  when  you  were  stooping  over,  per 
haps  to  pick  up  something?" 

Miss  Mattie  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 
"  Are  you  a  mind-reader,  or  did  Roger  tell  you? ' ' 

"Neither,"  smiled  Allan.  "Did  a  sharp 
pain  come  in  the  lumbar  region  when  you 
attempted  to  straighten  up?" 


172 


fflower  ot  tbe 


Ube 

preecrips 
tton 


'Twan'tthe  lumber  room.  I  ain't  been 
in  the  attic  for  Weeks,  though  I  expect  it  needs 
straightenin'.  It  was  in  my  bedroom.  I  was 
stoopin'  over  to  open  a  bureau  drawer,  and 
when  I  riz  up,  I  found  my  back  was 
busted." 

"  I  see,"  said  Allan.  He  was  already  writing 
a  prescription.  "  If  your  son  will  go  down  and 
get  this  filled,  you  will  have  no  more  trouble. 
Take  two  every  four  hours." 

Miss  Mattie  took  the  bit  of  paper  anxiously. 
"No  surgical  operation?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  laughed  Allan. 

"No  mortar  piled  up  on  me  and  left  to  set? 
No  striped  nurses?" 

"No  plaster  cast,"  Allan  assured  her,  "and 
no  striped  nurses." 

"  I  reckon  it  ain't  none  of  my  business," 
remarked  Miss  Mattie,  "but  why  didn't  you 
do  somethin'  like  this  for  Barbara  instead  of 
cuttin'  her  up?  I  'm  worse  off  than  she  ever 
was,  because  she  could  walk  right  spry  with 
crutches,  and  crutches  would  n't  have  helped 
me  none  when  I  was  risin'  up  from  the  bureau 
drawer." 

"Barbara's  case  is  different.  She  had  a 
congenital  dislocation  of  the  femur." 

Miss  Mattie's  jaw  dropped,  but  she  quickly 
recovered  herself.  "And  what  have  I  got?" 

"Lumbago." 

"My  disease  is  shorter,"  she  commented, 


"TKftoman  Suffrage" 


173 


after  a  moment  of  reflection,  "but  I  '11  bet  it 
feels  worse." 

"  I  '11  ask  your  son  to  come  in  if  I  see  him," 
said  Doctor  Conrad,  reaching  for  his  hat,  "and 
if  you  don't  get  well  immediately,  let  me  know. 
Good-bye." 

Roger  was  nowhere  in  sight,  but  he  was 
watching  the  two  houses,  and  as  soon  as  he 
saw  Doctor  Conrad  go  into  North's,  he  went 
back  to  his  mother. 

"Barbara's  disease  has  three  words  in  it, 
Roger,"  she  explained,  "and  mine  has  only 
one,  but  it 's  more  painful.  You  're  to  go 
immediately  with  this  piece  of  paper  and  get 
it  full  of  the  medicine  he  's  written  on  it. 
I  've  been  lookin'  at  it,  but  I  don't  get  no 
sense  out  of  it.  He  said  to  take  two  every 
four  hours — two  what?" 

"  Pills,  probably,  or  capsules." 

"  Pills  ?  Now,  Roger,  you  know  that  no  pill 
small  enough  to  swallow  could  cure  a  big  pain 
like  this  in  my  back.  The  postmaster's  wife 
had  the  rheumatiz  last  Winter,  and  she  took 
over  five  quarts  of  Old  Doctor  Jameson's  Pain 
Killer,  and  it  never  did  her  a  mite  of  good. 
What  do  you  think  a  paper  that  size,  full  of 
pills,  can  do  for  a  person  that  ain't  able  to 
stand  up  without  screechin'?" 

"Well,  we  '11  try  it  anyway,  Mother.  Just 
sit  still  until  I  come  back  with  the  medicine." 

He  went  out  and  returned,  presently,  with 


flNM 

flDattic'o 
".IDtaeaoc' 


jplower  of  tbe  Dusk 


H 

3Dtf8cult$ 


a  red  box  containing  forty  or  fifty  capsules. 
Miss  Mattie  took  it  from  him  and  studied  it 
carefully.  "This  box  ain't  more  'n  a  tenth  as 
big  as  the  pain,"  she  observed  critically. 

Roger  brought  a  glass  of  water  and  took  out 
two  of  the  capsules.  "Take  these/'  he  said, 
"and  at  half  past  two,  take  two  more.  Let 's 
give  Doctor  Conrad  a  fair  trial.  It 's  probably 
a  more  powerful  medicine  than  it  seems  to  be." 

Miss  Mattie  had  some  difficulty  at  first,  as 
she  insisted  on  taking  both  capsules  at  once, 
but  when  she  was  persuaded  to  swallow  one 
after  the  other,  all  went  well.  "  I  suppose," 
she  remarked,  "that  these  long  narrow  pills 
have  to  be  took  endways.  If  a  person  went 
to  swallow  'em  crossways,  they  'd  choke  to 
death.  I  was  careful  how  I  took  'em,  but 
other  people  might  not  be,  and  I  think,  myself, 
that  round  pills  are  safer." 

"I  went  to  the  office,"  said  Roger,"  and 
told  the  Judge  I  would  n't  be  down  to-day. 
I  have  some  work  I  can  do  at  home,  and  I  'd 
rather  not  leave  you." 

"It 's  just  come  to  my  mind  now,"  mused 
Miss  Mattie,  ignoring  his  thoughtfulness, 
"about  the  minister's  sermon  Sunday.  He 
said  that  everything  that  came  to  us  might 
teach  us  something  if  we  only  looked  for  it. 
I  've  been  thinkin'  as  I  set  here,  what  a  heap 
I  Ve  learned  about  my  back  this  mornin'.  I 
never  sensed,  until  now,  that  it  was  used  in 


Woman  Suffrage  " 


walkin'.  I  reckoned  that  my  back  was  just 
kind  of  a  finish  to  me  and  was  to  keep  the  dust 
out  of  my  vital  organs  more  'n  anything  else. 
This  mornin'  I  see  that  the  back  is  entirely 
used  in  walkin'.  What  gets  me  is  that  Bar 
bara  North  had  to  have  crutches  when  her 
back  was  all  right.  Nothin'  was  out  of  kilter 
but  her  legs,  and  only  one  of  'em  at  that/' 

"  Here  's  your  paper,  Mother."  Roger  pulled 
The  Metropolitan  Weekly  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Lay  it  down  on  the  table,  please.  It 
ought  n't  to  have  come  Until  to-morrow.  I 
ain't  got  time  for  it  now." 

"Why,  Mother?    Don't  you  want  to  read?" 

The  knot  of  hair  on  the  back  of  Miss  Mattie's 
head  seemed  to  rise,  and  her  protruding  wire 
hairpins  bristled.  "  I  should  think  you  'd 
know,"  she  said,  indignantly,  "when  you  've 
been  takin'  time  from  the  law  to  read  your 
pa's  books  to  Barbara  North,  that  no  sick 
person  has  got  the  strength  to  read.  Even 
if  my  disease  is  only  in  one  word  when  hers 
is  in  three,  I  reckon  I  'm  goin'  to  take  proper 
care  of  myself." 

"  But  you  're  sitting  up  and  she  can't," 
explained  Roger,  kindly. 

"Sittin*  up  or  not  sittin'  up  ain't  got  nothin' 
to  do  with  it.  If  my  back  was  set  in  mortar 
as  it  ought  to  have  been,  I  would  n't  be  settin' 
up  either.  I  can't  get  up  without  screamin', 
and  as  long  as  I  've  knowed  Barbara  she's 


proper 

Care 


176 


ff  lower  of  tbe  Busfe 


never  been  that  bad.  That  new-fangled 
doctor  has  n't  come  out  of  North's  yet,  either. 
How  much  do  you  reckon  he  charges  for  a 
visit?" 

"Two  or  three  dollars,  I  suppose." 

Miss  Mattie  clucked  sharply  with  her  false 
teeth.  "  'Cordin'  to  that,"  she  calculated, 
"he  was  here  about  twenty  cents'  worth.  But 
I  'm  willin'  to  give  him  a  quarter  —  that  's  a 
nickel  extra  for  the  time  he  was  writin'  out  the 
recipe  for  them  long  narrow  pills  that  would 
choke  anybody  but  a  horse  if  they  happened  to 
go  down  crossways.  There  he  comes,  now. 
If  he  don't  come  here  of  his  own  accord,  you 
go  out  and  get  him,  Roger.  I  want  he  should 
finish  his  visit." 

But  it  was  not  necessary  for  Roger  to  go. 
"Of  his  own  accord,"  Doctor  Conrad  came 
across  the  street  and  opened  the  creaky  white 
gate.  When  he  came  in,  he  brought  with 
him  the  atmosphere  of  vitality  and  good  cheer. 
He  had,  too,  that  gentle  sympathy  which  is 
the  inestimable  gift  of  the  physician,  and 
which  requires  no  words  to  make  itself  felt. 

His  quick  eye  noted  the  box  of  capsules 
upon  the  table,  as  he  sat  down  and  took  Miss 
Mattie's  rough,  work-worn  hand  in  his.  "  How 
is  it?"  he  asked.  "Better?" 

"Mebbe,"  she  answered,  grudgingly.  "No 
more  'n  a  mite,  though." 

"That  's   all  we  can  expect  so  soon.     By 


"TKnoman  Suffrage" 


177 


to-morrow  morning,  though,  you  should  be  all 
right."  His  manner  unconsciously  indicated 
that  it  would  be  the  one  joy  of  a  hitherto 
desolate  existence  if  Miss  Mattie  should  be 
perfectly  well  again  in  the  morning. 

"How  's  my  fellow  sufferer?"  she  inquired, 
somewhat  mollified. 

"Barbara?  She's  doing  very  well.  She's 
a  brave  little  thing." 

"Which  is  the  sickest — her  or  me?" 

"As  regards  actual  pain,"  replied  Doctor 
Conrad,  tactfully,  "you  are  probably  suffering 
more  than  she  is  at  the  present  moment." 

"  I  knowed  it,"  cried  Miss  Mattie  triumph 
antly.  "Do  you  hear  that,  Roger?" 

But  Roger  had  slipped  out,  remembering 
that  "woman  suffrage"  was  not  a  proper 
subject  for  discussion  in  his  hearing. 

"  I  reckon  he 's  gone  over  to  North's," 
grumbled  Miss  Mattie.  "When  my  eye  ain't 
on  him,  he  scoots  off.  His  pa  was  the  same 
way.  He  was  forever  chasin'  over  there  and 
Roger's  inherited  it  from  him.  Whenever  I  've 
wanted  either  of  'em,  they  've  always  been 
took  with  wanderin'  fits." 

"  You  sent  him  out  before,"  Allan  reminded 
her. 

"So  I  did,  but  I  ain't  sent  him  out  now  and 
he  's  gone  just  the  same.  That  's  the  trouble. 
After  you  once  get  an  idea  into  a  man's  head, 
it  stays  put.  You  can't  never  get  it  out  again. 


Tfflatrterfn' 
Jffta 


i78 


flower  of  tbe  Busfe 


other  people  puts  in  is  just 
the  same." 

"Women  change  their  minds  more  easily, 
don't  they?"  askea  Allan.  He  was  enjoying 
himself  very  much. 

"Of  course.  There's  nothin'  set  about  a 
woman  unless  she  's  got  a  busted  back.  She 
ain't  carin'  to  move  around  much  then.  The 
postmaster's  wife  was  tellin'  me  about  one  of 
the  women  at  the  hotel — the  one  that 's 
writin'  the  book.  Do  you  know  her?" 

"  I  've  probably  seen  her." 

"The  postmaster's  wife's  bunion  was  a 
hurtin'  her  awful  one  day  when  this  woman 
come  in  after  stamps,  and  she  told  her  to  go 
and  help  herself  and  put  the  money  in  the 
drawer.  So  she  did,  and  while  she  was  doin' 
it  she  told  the  postmaster's  wife  that  she 
did  n't  have  no  bunion  and  no  pain — that  it 
was  all  a  mistake." 

"  '  You  would  n't  think  so/  says  the  post 
master's  wife,  'if  it  was  your  foot  that  had  the 
mistake  on  it/  She  was  awful  mad  at  first, 
but,  after  she  got  calmed  down,  the  book- 
woman  told  her  what  she  meant." 

"  'There  ain't  no  pain  nor  disease  in  the 
world/  she  says.  '  It 's  all  imagination/ 

"  'Well/  says  the  postmaster's  wife,  'when 
the  swellin'  is  so  bad,  how  'm  I  to  undeceive 
myself  ? ' 

"The  book-woman  says:  'Just  deny  it,  and 


"Woman  Suffrage "  179 

affirm  the  existence  of  good.  You  just  set  H  tre8t 
down  and  say  to  yourself:  "I  can't  have  no 
bunion  cause  there  ain't  no  such  thing,  and 
it  can't  hurt  me  because  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  pain.  My  foot  is  perfectly  well  and  strong. 
I  will  get  right  up  and  walk." 

"As  soon  as  the  woman  was  gone  out  with 
her  stamps,  the  postmaster's  wife  tried  it  and 
like  to  have  fainted  dead  away.  She  said  she 
might  have  been  able  to  convince  her  mind 
that  there  was  n't  no  bunion  on  her  foot,  but 
she  could  n't  convince  her  foot.  She  said  there 
was  n't  no  such  thing  as  pain,  and  the  bunion 
made  it  its  first  business  to  do  a  little  denyin' 
on  its  own  account.  You  have  to  be  awful 
careful  not  to  offend  a  bunion. 

"This  mornin',  while  Roger  was  gone  after 
them  long,  narrow  pills  that  has  to  be  swallowed 
endways  unless  you  want  to  choke  to  death, 
I  reckoned  I  'd  try  it  on  my  back.  So  I  says, 
right  out  loud:  'My  back  don't  hurt  me.  It  is 
all  imagination.  I  can't  have  no  pain  because 
there  ain't  no  such  thing.'  Then  I  stood  up 
right  quick,  and — Lord  !" 

Miss  Mattie  shook  her  head  sadly  at  the 
recollection.  "Do  you  know/'  she  went  on, 
thoughtfully,  "I  wish  that  woman  at  the 
hotel  had  lumbago?" 

Doctor  Conrad's  nice  brown  eyes  twinkled, 
and  his  mouth  twitched,  ever  so  slightly. 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  do,  too,"  he  said. 


i8o 


flower  of  tbe  Busft 


surprise  "  If  she  did,  and  wanted  some  of  them  long 
narrow  pills,  would  you  give  'em  to  her?" 

"Probably,  but  I  'd  be  strongly  tempted 
not  to." 

When  he  took  his  leave,  Miss  Mattie,  from 
force  of  habit,  rose  from  her  chair.  "Ouch!" 
she  said,  as  she  slowly  straightened  up.  "  Why, 
I  do  believe  it 's  better.  It  don't  hurt  nothin' 
like  so  much  as  it  did." 

"  Your  surprise  is  n't  very  flattering,  Mrs. 
Austin,  but  I  '11  forgive  you.  The  next  time 
I  come  up,  I  '11  take  another  look  at  you. 
Good-bye." 

Miss  Mattie  made  her  way  slowly  over  to 
the  table  where  the  box  of  capsules  lay,  and 
returned,  with  some  effort,  to  her  chair.  She 
studied  both  the  box  and  its  contents  faith 
fully,  once  with  her  spectacles,  and  once  with 
out.  "  You  'd  never  think,"  she  mused,  "that 
a  pill  of  that  size  and  shape  could  have  any 
effect  on  a  big  pain  that 's  nowheres  near  your 
stomach.  He  must  be  a  dreadful  clever  young 
man,  for  it  sure  is  a  searchin'  medicine." 


XIV 

Barbara's  3BirtbJ>at> 

FAIRY  GODMOTHER,"  said  Barbara,  "I 
should  like  a  drink."  <***«*' 

"Fairy  Godchild,"  answered  Eloise,  "you 
shall  have  one.  What  do  you  want — rose- 
dew,  lilac-honey,  or  a  golden  lily  full  of  clear, 
cool  water?" 

"  I  '11  take  the  water,  please,"  laughed  Bar 
bara,  "but  I  want  more  than  a  lily  full." 

Eloise  brought  a  glass  of  water  and  managed 
to  give  it  to  Barbara  without  spilling  more 
than  a  third  of  it  upon  her.  "What  a  pretty 
neck  and  what  glorious  shoulders  you  have," 
she  commented,  as  she  wiped  up  the  water 
with  her  handkerchief.  "How  lovely  you 'd 
look  in  an  evening  gown." 

"Don't  try  to  divert  me,"  said  Barbara, 
with  affected  sternness.  "  I  'm  wet,  and  I  'm 
likely  to  take  cold  and  die." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  your  dying  after  you  've 
lived  through  what  you  have.  Allan  says 
you  're  the  bravest  little  thing  he  has  ever 
seen." 


182 


JFlower  of  tbe  Busfe 


two 


The  deep  colour  dyed  Barbara's  pale  face. 
"I  'm  not  brave/'  she  whispered;  "I  was  hor 
ribly  afraid,  but  I  thought  that,  even  if  I  were, 
I  could  keep  people  from  knowing  it." 

"  If  that  is  n't  real  courage,"  Eloise  assured 
her,  "it 's  so  good  an  imitation  that  it  would 
take  an  expert  to  tell  the  difference." 

"  I  'm  afraid  now,"  continued  Barbara.  Her 
colour  was  almost  gone  and  she  did  not  look 
at  Eloise.  "  I  'm  afraid  that,  after  all,  I  can 
never  walk."  She  indicated  the  crutches  at 
the  foot  of  her  bed  by  a  barely  perceptible 
nod.  "I  have  Aunt  Miriam  keep  them  there 
so  that  I  won't  forget." 

"Nonsense,"  cried  Eloise.  "Allan  says  that 
you  have  every  possible  chance,  so  don't  be 
foolish.  You  're  going  to  walk — you  must 
walk.  Why,  you  must  n't  even  think  of  any 
thing  else." 

"It  would  seem  strange/'  sighed  Barbara, 
"after  almost  twenty-two  years,  why — what 
day  of  the  month  is  to-day?" 

"The  sixteenth." 

"Then  it  is  twenty-two.  This  is  my  birth 
day — I  'm  twenty-two  years  old  to-day." 

"Fairy  Godchild,  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  'd  forgotten  it  myself." 

"  You  're  too  young  to  begin  to  forget  your 
birthdays.  I  'm  past  thirty,  but  I  still  '  keep 
tab'  on  mine." 

"  If  you  're  thirty,  I  must  be  at  least  forty, 


Barbara's  :!6irtbt>as 


183 


for  I  'm  really  much  older  than  you  are.  And 
Roger  is  an  infant  in  arms  compared  with  me." 

"Wise  lady,  how  did  you  grow  so  old  in  so 
short  a  time?" 

"By  working  and  reading,  and  thinking — 
and  suffering,  I  suppose." 

"When  you  're  well,  dear,  I  'm  going  to  try 
to  give  you  some  of  the  girlhood  you  've  never 
had.  You  're  entitled  to  pretty  gowns  and 
parties  and  beaux,  and  all  the  other  things  that 
belong  to  the  teens  and  twenties.  You're 
coming  to  town  with  me,  I  hope — that 's  why 
I  'm  staying." 

Barbara's  blue  eyes  filled  and  threatened  to 
overflow.  "Oh,  Fairy  Godmother,  how  lovely 
it  would  be.  But  I  can't  go.  I  must  stay 
here  and  sew  and  try  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
Besides,  father  would  miss  me  so." 

Eloise  only  smiled,  for  she  had  plans  of  her 
own  for  father.  "We  won't  argue,"  she  said, 
lightly,  "we  '11  wait  and  see.  It 's  a  great 
mistake  to  try  to  live  to-morrow,  or  even 
yesterday,  to-day." 

When  Eloise  went  back  to  the  hotel,  her 
generous  heart  full  of  plans  for  her  protege, 
Miriam  did  not  hear  her  go  out,  and  so  it 
happened  that  Barbara  was  alone  for  some 
time.  Ambrose  North  had  gone  for  one  of  his 
long  walks  over  the  hills  and  along  the  shore, 
expecting  to  return  before  Eloise  left  Barbara. 
For  some  vague  reason  which  he  himself  could 


TOlatt  ant> 
See 


184 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


flMrtam 

Delivers 

tbe  letter 


not  have  put  into  words,  he  did  not  like  to 
leave  her  alone  with  Miriam. 

When  Miriam  came  up-stairs,  she  paused  at 
the  door  to  listen.  Hearing  no  voices,  she 
peeped  within.  Barbara  lay  quietly,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  dreaming  of  the  day 
when  she  could  walk  freely  and  joyously,  as 
did  the  people  who  passed  and  repassed. 

Miriam  went  stealthily  to  her  own  room,  and 
took  out  the  letter  to  Barbara.  She  had  no 
curiosity  as  to  its  contents.  If  she  had,  it 
would  be  an  easy  matter  to  open  it,  and  put 
it  into  another  envelope,  without  the  address, 
and  explain  that  it  had  been  merely  enclosed 
with  instructions  as  to  its  delivery. 

Taking  it,  she  went  into  the  room  where 
Barbara  lay — the  same  room  where  the  dead 
Constance  had  lain  so  long  before. 

"  Barbara,"  she  said,  without  emotion, 
"when  your  mother  died  she  left  this  letter 
for  you,  in  my  care."  She  put  it  into  the 
girl's  eager,  outstretched  hand  and  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

With  trembling  fingers,  Barbara  broke  the 
seal,  and  took  out  the  closely  written  sheet. 
All  four  pages  were  covered.  The  ink  had 
faded  and  the  paper  was  yellow,  but  the  words 
were  still  warm  with  love  and  life. 


"  Barbara,  my  darling,  my  little  lame  baby," 
the  letter  began.     "  If  you  live  to  receive  this 


Barbara's  JStrtb&a^  185 


letter,  your  mother  will  have  been  dead  for 
many  years  and,  perhaps,  forgotten.  I  have 
chosen  your  twenty-second  birthday  for  this 
because  I  am  twenty-two  now,  and,  when  you 
are  the  same  age,  you  will,  perhaps,  be  better 
fitted  to  understand  than  at  any  other  time. 

"  I  trust  you  have  not  married,  because,  if 
you  have,  my  warning  may  come  too  late. 
Never  marry  a  man  whom  you  do  not  know, 
absolutely,  that  you  love,  and  when  this  know 
ledge  comes  to  you,  if  there  are  no  barriers  in 
the  way,  do  not  let  anything  on  God's  earth 
keep  you  apart. 

"  I  have  made  the  mistake  which  many  girls 
make.  I  came  from  school,  young,  inex 
perienced,  unbalanced,  and  eager  for  admira 
tion.  Your  father,  a  brilliant  man  of  more 
than  twice  my  age,  easily  appealed  to  my 
fancy.  He  was  handsome,  courteous,  distin 
guished,  wealthy,  of  fine  character  and  un 
assailable  position.  I  did  not  know,  then, 
that  a  woman  could  love  love,  rather  than  the 
man  who  gave  it  to  her. 

"There  is  not  a  word  to  be  said  of  him  that 
is  not  wholly  good.  He  has  failed  at  no  point, 
nor  in  the  smallest  degree.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  I  who  have  disappointed  him,  even  though 
I  love  him  dearly  and  always  have.  I  have 
never  loved  him  more  than  to-day,  when  I 
leave  you  both  forever. 

"  My  feeling  for  him  is  unchanged.    It  is  only 


i86 


fflower  ot  tbe  Busfc 


Ub 


that  at  last  I  have  come  face  to  face  with  the 
one  man  of  all  the  world— the  one  God  made 
for  me,  back  in  the  beginning.  I  have  known 
it  for  a  long,  long  time,  but  I  did  not  know 
that  he  also  loved  me  until  a  few  days  ago. 

"Since  then,  my  world  has  been  chaos, 
illumined  by  this  unutterable  light.  I  have 
been  a  true  wife,  and  when  I  can  be  true  no 
longer,  it  is  time  to  take  the  one  way  out.  I 
cannot  live  here  and  run  the  risk  of  seeing 
him  constantly,  yet  trust  myself  not  to  speak; 
I  cannot  bear  to  know  that  the  little  space 
lying  between  us  is,  in  reality,  the  whole  world. 

"He  is  bound,  too.  He  has  a  wife  and  a 
son  only  a  little  older  than  you  are.  If  I  stay, 
I  shall  be  false  to  your  father,  to  you,  to  him, 
and  even  to  myself,  because,  in  my  relation 
to  each  of  you,  I  shall  be  living  a  lie. 

"Tell  your  dear  father,  if  he  still  lives,  that 
he  has  been  very  good  to  me,  that  I  appreciate 
all  his  kindness,  gentleness,  patience,  and  the 
beautiful  love  he  has  given  me.  Tell  him  I 
am  sorry  I  have  failed  him,  that  I  have  not 
been  a  better  wife,  but  God  knows  I  have  done 
the  best  I  could.  Tell  him  I  have  loved  him, 
that  I  love  him  still,  and  have  never  loved  him 
more  than  I  do  to-day.  But  oh,  my  baby, 
do  not  tell  him  that  the  full-orbed  ^un  has 
risen  before  one  who  knew  only  twilight  before. 

"And,  if  you  can,  love  your  mother  a  little, 
as  she  lies  asleep  in  her  far-away  grave.  Your 


JSarbara'0  JBirtbfcap  187 


father,  if  he  has  not  forgotten  me,  will  have 
dealt  gently  with  my  memory — of  that  I  am 
sure.  But  I  do  not  quite  trust  Miriam,  and  I 
do  not  know  what  she  may  have  said.  She 
loved  your  father  and  I  took  him  away  from 
her.  She  has  never  forgiven  me  tor  that  and 
she  never  will. 

"If  I  have  done  wrong,  it  has  been  in 
thought  only  and  not  in  deed.  I  do  not  believe 
we  can  control  thought  or  feeling,  though 
action  and  speech  can  be  kept  within  bounds. 
Forgive  me,  Barbara,  darling,  and  love  me  if 
you  can. 

"Your 

"MOTHER." 

The  last  words  danced  through  the  blurring 
mist  and  Barbara  sobbed  aloud  as  she  put  the 
letter  down.  Blind  though  he  was,  her  father 
had  felt  the  lack — the  change.  The  pity  of 
it  all  overwhelmed  her. 

Her  thought  flew  swiftly  to  Roger,  but — no, 
he  must  not  know.  This  letter  was  written 
to  the  living  and  not  to  the  dead.  Aunt 
Miriam  would  ask  no  questions — she  was  sure 
of  that — but  the  message  to  her  father  lay 
heavily  upon  her  soul.  How  could  she  make 
him  believe  in  the  love  he  so  hungered  for  even 
now? 

As  the  hours  passed,  Barbara  became  calm. 
When  Miriam  came  in  to  see  if  she  wanted 


l8s 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusk 


anything,  she  asked  for  pencil  and  paper,  and 

.    J       .  °  .  .  r  .  .,,          . 

for  a  book  to  be  propped  up  on  a  pillow  in 
front  of  her,  so  that  she  might  write. 

Miriam  obeyed  silently,  taking  an  occasional 
swift,  keen  look  at  Barbara,  but  the  calm, 
impassive  face  and  the  deep  eyes  were 
inscrutable. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  again,  she  began 
to  write,  with  difficulty,  from  her  mother's 
letter,  altering  it  as  little  as  possible,  and  yet 
changing  the  meaning  of  it  all.  She  could 
trust  herself  to  read  from  her  own  sheet,  but 
not  from  the  other.  It  took  a  long  time,  but 
at  last  she  was  satisfied. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  Ambrose  North 
returned,  and  Barbara  asked  for  a  candle  to 
be  placed  on  the  small  table  at  the  head  of  her 
bed.  She  also  sent  away  the  book  and  pencil 
and  the  paper  she  had  not  used.  Miriam's 
curiosity  was  faintly  aroused,  but,  as  she  told 
herself,  she  could  wait.  She  had  already 
waited  long. 

"Daddy,"  said,  Barbara,  softly,  when  they 
were  alone,  "do  you  know  what  day  it  is?" 

"No,"  he  answered;  "why?" 

"It's  my  birthday — I'm  twenty-two  to 
day." 

"Are  you?  Your  dear  mother  was  twenty- 
two  when  she — I  wish  you  were  like  your 
mother,  Barbara." 

"Mother  left  a  letter  with  Aunt  Miriam," 


^Barbara's 


189 


said  Barbara,  gently.  "She  gave  it  to  me 
to-day/' 

The  old  man  sprang  to  his  feet.  "A  letter! " 
he  cried,  reaching  out  a  trembling  hand. 
"Forme?" 

Barbara  laughed — a  little  sadly.  "No, 
Daddy — for  me.  But  there  is  something  for 
you  in  it.  Sit  down,  and  I  '11  read  it  to  you." 

"Read  it  all,"  he  cried.  "Read  every 
word." 

"  Barbara,  my  darling,  my  little  lame  baby," 
read  the  girl,  her  voice  shaking,  "if  you  live 
to  read  this  letter,  your  mother  will  have  been 
dead  for  many  years,  and  possibly  forgotten." 

"No,"  breathed  Ambrose  North — "never 
forgotten." 

"  I  have  chosen  your  twenty-second  birth 
day  for  this,  because  I  am  twenty-two  now, 
and  when  you  are  the  same  age,  it  will  be  as 
if  we  were  sisters,  rather  than  mother  and 
daughter." 

"Dear  Constance,"  whispered  the  old  man. 

"When  I  came  from  school,  I  met  your 
father.  He  was  a  brilliant  man,  handsome, 
courteous,  distinguished,  of  fine  character  and 
unassailable  position." 

Barbara  glanced  up  quickly.  The  dull  red 
had  crept  into  his  wrinkled  cheeks,  but  his 
lips  were  parted  in  a  smile. 

"There  is  not  a  word  to  be  said  of  him  that  is 
not  wholly  good.  He  has  failed  at  no  point, 


JBarbara 
tteabs  to 

ber 
ffatber 


190 


ff  lower  ot  tbe  Busfe 


nor  in  the  smallest  degree.  I  have  disap 
pointed  him,  I  fear,  even  though  I  love  him 
dearly  and  always  have.  I  have  never  loved 
him  more  than  I  do  to-day,  when  I  leave  you 
both  forever. 

"Tell  your  dear  father,  if  he  still  lives,  that 
he  has  been  very  good  to  me,  that  I  appreciate 
all  his  kindness,  gentleness,  patience,  and  the 
beautiful  love  he  has  given  me.  Tell  him  I 
am  sorry  I  have  failed  him " 

"Oh,  dear  God!"  he  cried.     " Sle  fail?" 

"That  I  have  not  been  a  better  wife,"  Bar 
bara  went  on,  brokenly.  "Tell  him  I  have 
loved  him,  that  I  love  him  still,  and  have  never 
loved  him  more  than  I  do  to-day. 

"Forgive  me,  both  of  you,  and  love  me  if 
you  can.  Your  Mother." 

In  the  tense  silence,  Barbara  folded  up  both 
sheets  and  put  them  back  into  the  envelope. 
Still,  she  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her  father. 
When,  at  last,  she  turned  to  him,  sorely  per 
plexed  and  afraid,  he  was  still  sitting  at  her 
bedside.  He  had  not  moved  a  muscle,  but 
he  had  changed.  If  molten  light  had  suddenly 
been  poured  over  him  from  above,  while  the 
rest  of  the  room  lay  in  shadow,  he  could  not 
have  changed  more. 

The  sorrowful  years  had  slipped  from  him, 
and,  as  though  by  magic,  Youth  had  come  back. 
His  shoulders  were  still  stooped,  his  face  and 
hands  wrinkled,  and  his  hair  was  still  as  white 


Barbara's 


191 


as  the  blown  snow,  but  his  soul  was  young,  as 

,    f  Voices 

never  before. 

"Barbara,"  he  breathed,  in  ecstasy.  "She 
died  loving  me." 

The  slender  white  hand  stole  out  to  his, 
half  fearfully.  "  Yes,  Daddy,  I  've  always 
told  you  so,  don't  you  know?"  Her  senses 
whirled,  but  she  kept  her  voice  even. 

"She  died  loving  me,"  he  whispered. 

The  clock  ticked  steadily,  a  door  closed 
below,  and  a  little  bird  outside  chirped  softly. 
There  was  no  other  sound  save  the  wild  beat 
ing  of  Barbara's  heart,  which  she  alone  heard. 
Still  transfigured,  he  sat  beside  the  bed,  hold 
ing  her  hand  in  his. 

Far-away  voices  sounded  faintly  in  his  ears, 
for,  like  a  garment,  the  years  had  fallen  from 
him  and  taken  with  them  the  questioning  and 
the  fear.  Into  his  doubting  heart  Constance 
had  come  once  more,  radiant  with  new  beauty, 
thrilling  his  soul  to  new  worship  and  new 
belief. 

"  She  died  loving  me,"  he  said,  as  though  he 
could  scarcely  believe  his  own  words.  "  Bar 
bara,  I  know  it  is  much  to  ask,  for  it  must  be 
very  precious  to  you,  but — would  you  let  me 
hold  the  letter  ?  Would  you  let  me  feel  the 
words  I  cannot  see  ?" 

Choking  back  a  sob,  Barbara  took  both 
sheets  out  of  the  envelope  and  gave  them  to 
him.  "Show  me,"  he  whispered,  "show  me 


192 


flower  of  tbe  SHisfe 


Bfter 
S?ears  of 


the  line  where  she  wrote,  'Tell  him  I  love  him 
still,  and  have  never  loved  him  more  than  I 
do  to-day. '  ' 

When  Barbara  put  his  finger  upon  the  words, 
he  bent  and  kissed  them.  "What  does  it  say 
here?" 

He  pointed  to  the  paragraph  beginning,  "  I 
have  made  the  mistake  which  many  girls 
make.  " 

"  It  says,"  answered  Barbara,  "'There  is  not 
a  word  to  be  said  of  him  that  is  not  wholly 
good/  '  He  bent  and  kissed  that,  too.  "And 
here?"  His  finger  pointed  to  the  line,  " I  did 
not  know  that  a  woman  could  love  love, 
rather  than  the  man  who  gave  it  to  her." 

"That  is  where  it  says  again,  'Tell  him  I 
have  loved  him,  that  I  love  him  still,  and  have 
never  loved  him  more  than  I  do  to-day.'  ' 

"  Dear,  blessed  Constance,"  he  said,  crushing 
the  lie  to  his  lips.  "Dear  wife,  true  wife; 
truest  of  all  the  world." 

Barbara  could  bear  no  more.  "  Let  me  have 
the  letter  again,  Daddy." 

"No,  dear,  no.  After  all  these  years  of 
waiting,  let  me  keep  it  for  a  little  while.  Just 
for  a  little  while,  Barbara.  Please."  His 
voice  broke  at  the  end. 

"For  a  little  while,  then,  Daddy,"  she  said, 
slowly;  "only  a  little  while." 

He  went  out,  with  the  precious  letter  in  his 
hand.  Miriam  was  in  the  hall,  but  he  was 


Barbara's  Btrtbfcap  193 

unconscious   of  the   fact.     She   shrank   back 

i  11        i  11  •  i    ,  .     ^          Illumines 

against  the  wall  as  he  passed  her,  with  his  fine 

old  face  illumined  as  from  some  light  within. 

In  his  own  room,  he  sat  down,  after  closing 
the  door,  and  spread  the  two  sheets  on  the 
table  before  him.  He  moved  his  hands  caress 
ingly  over  the  lines  Constance  had  written  in 
ink  and  Barbara  in  pencil. 

"She  died  loving  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  I  was  wrong.  She  did  not  change  when 
I  was  blind  and  Barbara  was  lame.  All  these 
years  I  have  been  doubting  her  while  her  own 
assurance  was  in  the  house. 

"  She  thought  she  failed  me — the  dear  saint 
thought  she  failed.  It  must  take  me  all 
eternity  to  atone  to  her  for  that.  But  she 
died  loving  me."  His  thought  lingered  fondly 
upon  the  words,  then  the  tears  streamed  sud 
denly  over  his  blind  face. 

"Oh,  Constance,  Constance,"  he  cried  aloud, 
forgetting  that  the  dead  cannot  hear.  "  You 
never  failed  me!  Forgive  me  if  you  can." 


194 


TKflonber* 
TOlorher 


XV 

Song  of  tbe  flMnee 


UPON  the  couch  in  the  sitting-room,  though 
it  was  not  yet  noon,  Miss  Mattie  slept 
peacefully.  She  had  the  repose,  not  merely 
of  one  dead,  but  of  one  who  had  been  dead 
long  and  was  very  weary  at  the  time  of  dying. 

As  Doctor  Conrad  had  expected,  her  back 
was  entirely  well  the  morning  following  his 
visit,  and  when  she  awoke,  free  from  pain,  she 
had  dinned  his  praises  into  Roger's  ears  until 
that  long-suffering  young  man  was  well-nigh 
fatigued.  The  subject  was  not  exhausted, 
however,  even  though  Roger  was. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Roger,"  Miss  Mattie 
had  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and  taking  a 
fresh  start;  "a  young  man  that  can  cure  a  pain 
like  mine,  with  pills  that  size,  has  got  a  great 
future  ahead  of  him  as  well  as  a  brilliant  past 
behind.  He  's  a  wonder-worker,  that  's  what 
he  is,  not  to  mention  bein'  a  mind-reader  as 
well." 

She  had  taken  but  a  half  dozen  of  the  capsules 


Ube  Sons  of  tbe  pines 


195 


the  first  day,  having  fallen  asleep  after  taking 
the  third  dose.  When  Roger  went  to  the  office, 
very  weary  of  Doctor  Conrad's  amazing  skill, 
Miss  Mattie  had  resumed  her  capsules  and, 
shortly  thereafter,  fallen  asleep. 

She  had  slept  for  the  better  part  of  three 
days,  caring  little  for  food  and  not  in  the  least 
for  domestic  tasks.  At  the  fourth  day,  Roger 
became  alarmed,  but  Doctor  Conrad  had  gone 
back  to  the  city,  and  there  was  no  one  within 
his  reach  in  whom  he  had  confidence. 

At  last  it  seemed  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
act,  and  he  shook  the  sleeping  woman  vigor 
ously.  "What's  the  matter,  Roger?"  she 
asked,  drowsily;  "is  it  time  for  my 
medicine  ?" 

"No,  it  isn't  time  for  medicine,  but  it's 
time  to  get  up.  Your  back  does  n't  hurt  you, 
does  it?" 

"No,"  murmured  Miss  Mattie,  "my  back 
is  as  good  as  it  ever  was.  What  time  is  it  ?" 

"Almost  four  o'clock  and  you  've  been  asleep 
ever  since  ten  this  morning.  Wake  up." 

"Eight — ten — twelve — two — four,"  breathed 
Miss  Mattie,  counting  on  her  fingers.  Then,  to 
j  his  astonishment,  she  sat  up  straight  and  rubbed 
her  eyes.  "  If  it 's  four,  it 's  time  for  my  medi 
cine."  She  went  over  to  the  cupboard  in 
which  the  precious  box  of  capsules  was  kept, 
took  two  more,  and  returned  to  the  couch. 
She  still  had  the  box  in  her  hand. 


ttbe 

Sleeping 
TOUoman 


196 


jfiower  of  tbe  SDusfe 


(Betting 
t>er 


TOlortb 


"Mother,"  gasped  Roger,  horrified.  "What 
are  you  taking  that  medicine  for?" 

"For  my  back/'  she  responded,  sleepily. 

"  I  thought  your  back  was  well." 

"So 'tis." 

"Then  what  in  thunder  do  you  keep  on 
taking  dope  for?" 

Miss  Mattie  sat  up.  She  was  very  weary 
and  greatly  desired  her  sleep,  but  it  was  evident 
that  Roger  must  be  soothed  first. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  understand  me,"  she 
sighed,  with  a  yawn.  "After  payin'  a  dollar 
and  twenty  cents  for  that  medicine,  do  you 
reckon  I  'm  goin'  to  let  it  go  to  waste?  I  'm 
goin'  to  keep  right  on  takin'  it,  every  four 
hours,  as  he  said,  until  it 's  used  up." 

"Mother!" 

"Don't  you  worry  none,  Roger,"  said  Miss 
Mattie,  kindly,  with  a  drowsy  smile.  "Your 
mother  is  bein'  took  care  of  by  a  wonderful 
doctor.  He  makes  the  lame  walk  and  the 
blind  see  and  cures  large  pains  with  small  pills. 
I  am  goin'  to  stick  to  my  medicine.  He  did  n't 
say  to  stop  takin'  it." 

"  But,  Mother,  you  must  n't  take  it  when 
there  is  no  need  for  it.  He  never  meant  for 
you  to  take  it  after  you  were  cured.  Besides, 
you  might  have  the  same  trouble  again  when 
we  could  n't  get  hold  of  him." 

"How'm  I  to  have  it  again?"  demanded 
Miss  Mattie,  pricking  up  her  ears,  "when  I  'm 


Song  of  tbe  pines 


197 


cured  ?  If  I  take  all  the  medicine,  I  '11  stay 
cured,  won't  I?  You  ain't  got  no  logic,  Roger, 
no  more  'n  your  pa  had." 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't,  Mother,"  pleaded 
the  boy,  genuinely  distressed.  "  It  's  the 
medicine  that  makes  you  sleep  so." 

"  I  reckon,"  responded  Miss  Mattie,  settling 
herself  comfortably  back  among  the  pillows, 
"that  he  wanted  me  to  have  some  sleep.  In 
all  my  life  I  ain't  never  had  such  sleep  as  I  'm 
havin'  now.  You  go  away,  Roger,  and  study 
law.  You  ain't  cut  out  for  medicine." 

The  last  words  died  away  in  an  incoherent 
whisper.  Miss  Mattie  slept  again,  with  the 
box  tightly  clutched  in  her  hand.  As  her 
fingers  gradually  loosened  their  hold,  Roger 
managed  to  gain  possession  of  it  without 
waking  her.  He  did  not  dare  dispose  of  it, 
for  he  well  knew  that  the  maternal  resentment 
would  make  the  remainder  of  his  life  a  burden. 
Besides,  she  might  have  another  attack,  when 
the  ministering  mind-reader  was  not  accessible. 
If  it  were  possible  to  give  her  some  harmless 
substitute,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  the 
"searching  medicine"  for  a  time  of  need. 

A  bright  idea  came  to  Roger,  which  he  hast 
ened  to  put  into  execution.  He  went  to  the 
druggist  and  secured  a  number  of  empty  cap 
sules  of  the  same  size.  At  home,  he  laboriously 
filled  them  with  flour  and  replaced  those  in  the 
box  with  an  equal  number  of  them.  He  put 


JBrfgbt 
Ufcca 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


jfavout 
aMe 


tunit? 


the  "searching  medicine"  safely  away  in  his 
desk  at  the  office,  and  went  to  work,  his  heart 
warmed  by  the  pleasant  consciousness  that  he 
had  done  a  good  deed. 

When  he  went  home  at  night,  Miss  Mattie 
was  partially  awake  and  inclined  to  be  fretful. 
"The  strength  is  gone  out  of  my  medicine," 
she  grumbled,  "and  it  ain't  time  to  take  more. 
I  've  got  to  set  here  and  be  deprived  of  my 
sleep  until  eight  o'clock." 

Roger  prepared  his  own  supper  and  induced 
his  mother  to  eat  a  little.  When  the  clock 
began  to  strike  eight,  she  took  two  of  the  flour- 
filled  capsules,  confidently  climbed  upstairs, 
and — such  is  the  power  of  suggestion — was 
shortly  asleep. 

Having  an  unusually  favourable  opportunity, 
Roger  went  over  to  see  Barbara.  He  had  not 
seen  her  since  the  night  before  the  operation, 
but  Doctor  Conrad  had  told  him  that  in  a  few 
days  he  might  be  allowed  to  talk  to  her  or  read 
to  her  for  a  little  while  at  a  time. 

Miriam  opened  the  door  for  him,  and,  he 
thought,  looked  at  him  with  unusual  sharpness. 
"  I  guess  you  can  see  her,"  she  said,  shortly. 
"  I  '11  ask  her." 

In  the  pathetically  dingy  room,  out  of  which 
Barbara  had  tried  so  hard  to  make  a  home,  he 
waited  until  Miriam  returned.  "They  said  to 
come  up,"  she  said,  and  disappeared. 

Roger  climbed  the  creaking  stairs  and  made 


Ubc  Song  ot  tbe 


i99 


his  way  through  the  dark,  narrow  hall  to  the 
open  door  from  whence  a  faint  light  came. 
"Come  in,"  called  Barbara,  as  he  paused. 

Ambrose  North  sat  by  her  bedside  holding 
her  hand,  but  she  laughingly  offered  the  other 
to  Roger.  "  Bad  boy,"  she  said ; "  why  have  n't 
you  come  before  ?  I  've  lain  here  in  the  window 
and  watched  you  go  back  and  forth  for  days." 

"I  didn't  dare,"  returned  Roger.  "I  was 
afraid  I  might  do  you  harm  by  coming  and  so 
I  stayed  away." 

"Everybody  has  been  so  kind,"  Barbara 
went  on.  "People  I  never  saw  nor  heard  of 
have  come  to  inquire  and  to  give  me  things. 
You  're  absolutely  the  last  one  to  come." 

"Last— and  least?" 

"Not  quite,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "But 
I  haven  't  been  lonely.  Father  has  been  right 
beside  me  all  the  time  except  when  I  've  been 
asleep,  have  n't  you,  Daddy?" 

"  I  've  wanted  to  be,"  smiled  the  old  man, 
"but  sometimes  they  made  me  go  away." 

"Tell  me  about  the  Judge's  liver,"  suggested 
Barbara,  "and  Fido.  I  've  been  thinking  a 
good  deal  about  Fido.  Did  his  legal  docu 
ment  hurt  him  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  On  the  contrary,  he 
thrived  on  it.  He  liked  it  so  well  that  he  's 
eaten  others  as  opportunity  offered.  The 
Judge  is  used  to  it  now,  and  does  n't  mind. 
I  've  been  thinking  that  it  might  save  time  and 


last  but 
•Rot  least 


200  fflower  ot  tbc  H>u0fe 

trouble  if,  when  I  copied  papers,  I  took  an  extra 
carbon  copy  for  Fido.  That  pup  literally  eats 
everything.  He  's  cut  some  of  his  teeth  on  a 
pair  of  rubbers  that  a  client  left  in  the  office, 
and  this  noon  he  ate  nearly  half  a  box  of 
matches." 

"I  suppose,"  remarked  Barbara,  "that  he 
was  hungry  and  wanted  a  light  lunch." 

"That  '11  be  about  all  from  you  just  now," 
laughed  Roger.  "  You  're  going  to  get  well  all 
right — I  can  see  that." 

"Of  course  I  'm  going  to  get  well.  Who 
dared  to  say  I  was  n't  ?" 

"Nobody  that  I  know  of.  Do  you  want  me 
to  bring  Fido  to  see  you  ?" 

"Some  day,"  said  Barbara,  thoughtfully, 
"I  would  like  to  have  you  lead  Fido  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  house,  but  I  do  not  be 
lieve  I  would  care  to  have  him  come  inside." 

So  they  talked  for  half  an  hour  or  more. 
The  blind  man  sat  silently,  holding  Barbara's 
hand,  too  happy  to  feel  neglected  or  in  any 
way  slighted.  From  time  to  time  her  fingers 
tightened  upon  his  in  a  reassuring  clasp  that 
took  the  place  of  words. 

Acutely  self-conscious,  Roger's  memory 
harked  back  continually  to  the  last  evening 
he  and  Barbara  had  spent  together.  In  a  way, 
he  was  grateful  for  North's  presence.  It 
measurably  lessened  his  constraint,  and  the 
subtle  antagonism  that  he  had  hitherto  felt 


Song  ot  tbe  pines 


201 


in  the  house  seemed  wholly  to  have  vanished. 

At  last  the  blind  man  rose,  still  holding  Bar 
bara's  hand.  "  It  is  late  for  old  folks  to  be 
sitting  up,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  go,  Daddy.  Make  a  song  first,  won't 
you  ?  A  little  song  for  Roger  and  me  ?" 

He  sat  down  again,  smiling.  "What  about  ?" 
he  asked. 

"About  the  pines,"  suggested  Barbara — "the 
tallest  pines  on  the  hills." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then,  clearing  his 
throat,  the  old  man  began. 

"Even  the  tall  and  stately  pines,"  he  said, 
"were  once  the  tiniest  of  seeds  like  everything 
else,  for  everything  in  the  world,  either  good  or 
evil,  has  a  very  small  beginning. 

"They  grow  slowly,  and  in  Summer,  when 
you  look  at  the  dark,  bending  boughs,  you  can 
see  the  year's  growth  in  paler  green  at  the  tips. 
No  one  pays  much  attention  to  them,  for  they 
are  very  dark  and  quiet  compared  with  the 
other  trees.  But  the  air  is  balmy  around  them, 
they  scatter  a  thick,  fragrant  carpet  under 
neath,  and  there  is  no  music  in  the  world,  I 
think,  like  a  sea-wind  blowing  through  the 
pines. 

"When  the  brown  cones  fall,  the  seeds  drop 
out  from  between  the  smooth,  satin-like  scales, 
and  so,  in  the  years  to  come,  a  dreaming 
mother  pine  broods  over  a  whole  forest  of 
smaller  trees.  A  pine  is  lonely  and  desolate,  if 


Small  36c= 


2O2 


jflowcr  of  tbe  Busfe 


»  love 
Stor? 


there  are  no  smaller  trees  around  it.  A  single 
one,  towering  against  the  sky,  always  means 
loneliness,  but  where  you  see  a  little  clump  of 
evergreens  huddled  together,  braving  the  sleet 
and  snow,  it  warms  your  heart. 

"In  Summer  they  give  fragrant  shade,  and 
in  Winter  a  shelter  from  the  coldest  blast. 
The  birds  sleep  among  the  thick  branches, 
finding  seeds  for  food  in  the  cones,  and,  on  some 
trees,  blue,  waxen  berries. 

"  Before  the  darkness  came  to  me,  I  saw  a 
love  story  in  a  forest  of  pines.  One  tree  was 
very  straight  and  tall,  and  close  beside  it  was 
another,  not  quite  so  high.  The  taller  tree 
leaned  protectingly  over  the  other,  as  if  lis 
tening  to  the  music  the  wind  made  on  its  way 
from  the  hills  to  the  sea.  As  time  went  on, 
their  branches  became  so  thickly  interlaced 
that  you  could  scarcely  tell  one  from  the  other. 

"Around  them  sprang  up  half  a  dozen  or 
more  smaller  trees,  sheltered,  brooded  over, 
and  faithfully  watched  by  these  two  with  the 
interlaced  branches.  The  young  trees  grew 
straight  and  tall,  but  when  they  were  not  quite 
half  grown,  a  man  came  and  cut  them  all  down 
for  Christmas  trees. 

"When  he  took  them  away,  the  forest  was 
strangely  desolate  to  these  two,  who  now  stood 
alone.  When  the  Daughters  of  Dawn  opened 
wide  the  gates  of  darkness,  and  the  Lord  of 
Light  fared  forth  upon  the  sea,  they  saw  it  not. 


Song  of  tbe  pines  203 


When  it  was  high  noon,  and  there  were  no  »««ft 
shadows,  even  upon  the  hill,  it  seemed  that 
they  might  lift  up  their  heads,  but  they  only 
twined  their  branches  more  closely  together. 
When  all  the  flaming  tapestry  of  heaven  was 
spread  in  the  West,  they  leaned  nearer  to  each 
other,  and  sighed. 

"When  the  night  wind  stirred  their  boughs 
to  faint  music,  it  was  like  the  moan  of  a  heart 
that  refuses  to  be  comforted.  When  Spring 
danced  through  the  forest,  leaving  flowers  upon 
her  way,  while  all  the  silences  were  filled  with 
life  and  joy,  these  two  knew  it  not,  for  they 
were  bereft. 

"Mating  calls  echoed  through  the  woods, 
and  silver  sounds  dripped  like  rain  from  the 
maples,  but  there  was  no  love-song  in  the 
boughs  of  the  pines.  The  birds  went  by,  on 
hushed  wings,  and  built  their  nests  far  away. 

"When  the  maples  put  on  the  splendid 
robes  of  Autumn,  the  pines,  more  gaunt  and 
desolate  than  ever,  covered  the  ground  with  a 
dense  fabric  of  needles,  lacking  in  fragrance. 
When  the  winds  grew  cool,  and  the  Little 
People  of  the  Forest  pattered  swiftly  through 
the  dead  and  scurrying  leaves,  there  was  no 
sound  from  the  pines.  They  only  waited  for 
the  end. 

"When  storm  swept  through  the  forest  and 
the  other  trees  bowed  their  heads  in  fear,  these 
two  straightened  themselves  to  meet  it,  for 


204  jflower  of  tbe  SHisfc 

©ne  they  were  not  afraid.  Frightened  birds  took 
refuge  there,  and  the  Little  People,  with  wild- 
beating  hearts,  crept  under  the  spreading 
boughs  to  be  sheltered. 

"  Vast,  reverberating  thunders  sounded  from 
hill  to  hill,  and  the  sea  answered  with  crashing 
surges  that  leaped  high  upon  the  shore.  Sud 
denly,  from  the  utter  darkness,  a  javelin  of 
lightning  flashed  through  the  pines,  but  they 
only  trembled  and  leaned  closer  still. 

"One  by  one,  with  the  softness  of  falling 
snow,  the  leaves  dropped  upon  the  brown  car 
pet  beneath,  but  there  was  no  more  fragrance, 
since  the  sap  had  ceased  to  move  through  the 
secret  channels  and  breathe  balm  into  the 
forest.  Snow  lay  heavily  upon  the  lower 
boughs  and  they  broke,  instead  of  bending. 
When  Spring  danced  through  the  world  again, 
piping  her  plaintive  music  upon  the  farthest 
hills,  the  pines  were  almost  bare. 

"All  through  the  sweet  Summer  the  needles 
kept  dropping.  Every  frolicsome  breeze  of 
June  carried  some  of  them  a  little  farther 
down  the  road;  every  full  moon  shone  more 
clearly  through  the  barrier  of  the  pines.  And 
at  last,  when  the  chill  winds  of  Autumn  chanted 
a  requiem  through  the  forest,  it  was  seen  that 
the  pines  had  long  been  dead,  but  they  so 
leaned  together  and  their  branches  were  so 
interlaced,  that,  even  in  death,  they  stood 
as  one. 


Song  of  tbe  pines  205 


"They  had  passed  their  lives  together,  they 

LJI  L       J  r         j      u  w(tb 

had  borne  the  same  burdens,  faced  the  same 
storms,  and  rejoiced  in  the  same  warmth  of 
Summer  sun.  One  was  not  left,  stricken,  long 
after  the  other  was  dead;  their  last  grief  was 
borne  together  and  was  lessened  because  it  was 
shared.  I  stand  there  sometimes  now,  where 
the  two  dead  trees  are  leaning  close  together, 
and  as  the  wind  sighs  through  the  bare  boughs, 
it  chants  no  dirge  to  me,  but  only  a  hymn  of 
farewell. 

"There  is  nothing  in  all  the  world,  Barbara, 
that  means  so  much  as  that  one  word,  'to 
gether/  and  when  you  add  Move'  to  it,  you 
have  heaven,  for  God  himself  can  give  no  more 
joy  than  to  bring  together  two  who  love,  never 
to  part  again." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara,  gently,  after  a 
pause. 

"I  thank  you  too,"  said  Roger. 

Ambrose  North  rose  and  offered  his  hand 
to  Roger.  "Good-night,"  he  said.  "I  am 
glad  you  came.  Your  father  was  my  friend." 
Then  he  bent  to  kiss  Barbara.  "Good-night, 
my  dear." 

"  Friend,"  repeated  Roger  to  himself,  as  the 
old  man  went  out.  "Yes,  friend  who  never 
betrayed  you  or  yours."  The  boy  thrilled 
with  passionate  pride  at  the  thought.  Before 
the  memory  of  his  father  his  young  soul  stood 
at  salute. 


206 


jf  lower  of  tbe  2Dusfe 


Barbara's  eyes  followed  her  father  fondly 

Crutches  ,  .    ,  i       i     11          i  • 

as  he  went  out  and  down  the  hall  to  his  own 
room.  When  his  door  closed,  Roger  came  to 
the  other  chair,  sat  down,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  It  's  not  really  necessary,"  explained  Bar 
bara,  with  a  faint  pink  upon  her  cheeks.  "I 
shall  probably  recover,  even  if  my  hand  is  n't 
held  all  the  time." 

"But  I  want  to,"  returned  Roger,  and  she 
did  not  take  her  hand  away.  Her  cheeks  took 
on  a  deeper  colour  and  she  smiled,  but  there 
was  something  in  her  deep  eyes  that  Roger  had 
never  seen  there  before. 

"  I  've  missed  you  so,"  he  went  on. 

"And  I  have  missed  you."  She  did  not 
dare  to  say  how  much. 

"How  long  must  you  lie  here  ?" 

"Not  much  longer,  I  hope.  Somebody  is 
coming  down  next  week  to  take  off  the  plaster; 
then,  after  I  've  stayed  in  bed  a  little  longer, 
they  '11  see  whether  I  can  walk  or  not." 

She  sighed  wistfully  and  a  strange  expression 
settled  on  her  face  as  she  looked  at  the  crutches 
which  still  leaned  against  the  foot  of  her  bed. 

"Why  do  you  have  those  there?"  asked 
Roger,  quickly. 

"To  remind  me  always  that  I  must  n't  hope 
too  much.  It 's  just  a  chance,  you  know." 

"  If  you  don't  need  them  again,  may  I  have 
them  ?" 

"Why?"  she  asked,  startled. 


ZTbe  Sons  of  tbe  pines 


207 


"  Because  they  are  yours — they  've  seemed 
a  part  of  you  ever  since  I  've  known  you.  I 
could  n't  bear  to  have  thrown  away  anything 
that  was  part  of  you,  even  if  you  've  outgrown 
it." 

"Certainly,"  answered  Barbara,  in  a  high, 
uncertain  voice.  "  You  're  very  welcome  and 
I  hope  you  can  have  them." 

"Barbara!"  Roger  knelt  beside  the  bed, 
still  keeping  her  hand  in  his.  "What  did  I 
say  that  was  wrong?" 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  with  difficulty. 
"  But,  after  bearing  all  this,  it  seems  hard  to 
think  that  you  don't  want  me  to  be — to  be 
separated  from  my  crutches.  Because  they 
have  belonged  to  me  always — you  think  they 
always  must." 

"  Barbara !  When  you  've  always  under 
stood  me,  must  I  begin  explaining  to  you 
now?  I  've  never  had  anything  that  belonged 
to  you,  and  I  thought  you  would  n't  mind,  if 
it  was  something  you  did  n't  need  any  more — 
I  would  n't  care  what  it  was — if " 

"  I  see,"  she  interrupted.  A  blinding  flash 
of  insight  had,  indeed,  made  many  things 
wonderfully  clear.  "Here — wouldn't  you 
rather  have  this?" 

She  slipped  a  knot  of  pale  blue  ribbon  from 
the  end  of  one  of  her  long,  golden  braids,  and 
gave  it  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    Then  he  added,  anxiously, 


H  "Rnot  of 

Blue 
IRibbon 


208 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


please  ? 


"are  you  sure  you  don't  need  it?  If  you 
do " 

"If  I  do,"  she  answered,  smiling,  "I'll 
either  get  another,  or  tie  my  braid  with  a 
string." 

Outwardly,  they  were  back  upon  the  old 
terms  again,  but,  for  the  first  time  since  the 
mud-pie  days,  Barbara  was  self-conscious. 
Her  heart  beat  strangely,  heavy  with  the 
prescience  of  new  knowledge.  When  Roger 
rose  from  his  chair  with  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon 
protruding  from  his  coat  pocket,  she  laughed 
hysterically. 

But  Roger  did  not  laugh.  He  bent  over 
her,  with  all  his  boyish  soul  in  his  eyes.  She 
crimsoned  as  she  turned  away  from  him. 

"Please?"  he  asked,  very  tenderly.  "You 
did  once." 

"No,"  she  cried,  shrilly. 

Roger  straightened  himself  instantly.  "  Then 
I  won't,"  he  said,  softly.  "I  won't  do  any 
thing  you  don't  want  me  to — ever." 


XVI 

Betrayal 

HPHE  long  weeks  dragged  by  and,  at  last, 
1  the  end  of  Barbara's  imprisonment  drew 
near.  The  red-haired  young  man  who  had 
previously  assisted  Doctor  Conrad  came  down 
with  one  of  the  nurses  and  removed  the  heavy 
plaster  cast.  The  nurse  taught  Miriam  how  to 
massage  Barbara  with  oils  and  exercise  the 
muscles  that  had  never  been  used. 

"Doctor  Conrad  told  me,"  said  the  red- 
haired  young  man,  "to  take  your  father  back 
with  me  to-morrow,  if  you  were  ready  to  have 
him  go.  The  sooner  the  better,  he  thought." 

Barbara  turned  away,  with  love  and  terror 
clutching  coldly  at  her  heart.  "Perhaps," 
she  said,  finally.  "  I  '11  talk  with  father  to 
night." 

Her  own  forgotten  agony  surged  back  into 
her  remembrance,  magnified  an  hundred  fold. 
Fear  she  had  never  had  for  herself  strongly 
asserted  itself  now,  for  him.  "If  it  should 
come  out  wrong,"  she  thought,  "  I  could 


209 


love  atrt 
Uerror 


2IO 


fflovver  of  tbe  2>usfe 


long 

lU.utm.i 


never  forgive  myself — never  in  the  wide 
world." 

When  the  doctor  and  nurse  had  gone  to  the 
hotel  and  Miriam  was  busy  getting  supper, 
Ambrose  North  came  quietly  into  Barbara's 
room. 

"How  are  you,  dear?"  he  asked, anxiously. 

"  I  'm  all  right,  Daddy,  except  that  I  feel 
very  queer.  It 's  all  different,  some  way. 
Like  the  old  woman  in  Mother  Goose,  I  won 
der  if  this  can  be  I." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "Are  they  going 
back  to-morrow,"  he  asked,  "the  doctor  and 
nurse  who  came  down  to-day?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Barbara,  in  a  voice  that 
was  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

The  old  man  took  her  hand  in  his  and  leaned 
over  her.  "Dear,"  he  pleaded,  "may  I  go, 
too?" 

Barbara  was  startled.  "Have  they  said 
anything  to  you  ?" 

"No,  I  was  just  thinking  that  I  could  go 
with  them  as  well  as  with  Doctor  Conrad.  It 
is  so  long  to  wait,"  he  sighed. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  hurt,"  an 
swered  Barbara,  with  a  choking  sob. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "but  I  bore  it  for  you. 
Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

There  was  no  response  in  words,  but  she 
breathed  hard,  every  shrill  respiration  fraught 
with  dread. 


JSetra^al 


211 


"Flower  of  the  Dusk/'  he  pleaded,  "may 
I  go?" 

"Yes,"  she  sobbed.  "I  have  no  right  to 
say  no." 

"Dear,  don't  cry."  The  old  man's  voice 
was  as  tender  as  though  she  had  been  the 
merest  child.  "The  dream  is  coming  true  at 
last — that  you  can  walk  and  I  can  see.  Think 
what  it  will  mean  to  us  both.  And  oh,  Bar 
bara,  think  what  it  will  be  to  me  to  see  the 
words  your  dear  mother  wrote  to  you — to 
know,  from  her  own  hand,  that  she  died  lov 
ing  me." 

Barbara  suddenly  turned  cold.  The  hand 
that  seemingly  had  clutched  her  heart  was 
tearing  unmercifully  at  the  tender  fibre  now. 
He  would  read  her  mother's  letter  and  know 
that  his  beloved  Constance  was  in  love  with 
another;  that  she  took  her  own  life  because 
she  could  bear  it  no  more.  He  would  know 
that  they  were  poor,  that  the  house  was  shabby, 
that  the  pearls  and  laces  and  tapestries  had  all 
been  sold.  He  would  know,  inevitably,  that 
Barbara's  needle  had  earned  their  living  for 
many  years;  he  would  see,  in  the  dining-room, 
the  pitiful  subterfuge  of  the  bit  of  damask, 
one  knife  and  fork  of  solid  silver,  one  fine  plate 
and  cup.  Above  all,  he  would  know  that 
Barbara  herself  had  systematically  lied  to  him 
ever  since  she  could  talk  at  all.  And  he  had 
a  horror  of  a  lie. 


212 


jflower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


"Don't/'  she  cried,  weakly.     "Don't  go." 

"  You  promised,  Barbara,"  he  said,  gently. 
Then  he  added,  proudly:  "The  Norths  never 
go  back  on  their  spoken  or  written  word.  It 
is  in  the  blood  to  be  true  and  you  have  pro 
mised.  I  shall  go  to-morrow." 

Barbara  cringed  and  shrank  from  him. 
"Don't,  dear/'  he  said.  "Your  hands  are 
cold.  Let  me  warm  them  in  mine.  I  fear 
that  to-day  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

"I  think  it  has,"  she  answered.  The 
words  were  almost  a  whisper. 

"Then,  don't  try  to  talk,  Barbara.  I  will 
talk  to  you.  I  know  how  you  feel  about  my 
going,  but  it  is  not  necessary,  for  I  do  not 
fear  in  the  least  for  myself.  I  am  sure  that 
the  dream  is  coming  true,  but,  if  it  should  not 
—  why,  we  can  bear  it  together,  dear,  as  we 
have  borne  everything.  The  ways  of  the 
Everlasting  are  not  our  ways,  but  my  faith 
is  very  strong. 

"If  the  dream  comes  true,  as  I  hope  and 
believe  it  will,  you  and  I  will  go  away,  dear, 
and  see  the  world.  We  shall  go  to  Europe  and 
Egypt  and  Japan  and  India,  and  to  the 
Southern  islands,  to  Greece  and  Constantino 
ple  —  I  have  planned  it  all.  Aunt  Miriam  can 
stay  here,  or  we  will  take  her  with  us,  just  as 
you  choose.  When  you  can  walk,  Barbara, 
and  I  can  see,  I  shall  draw  a  large  check,  and 
we  will  start  at  the  first  possible  moment. 


JSetra^al 


213 


The  greatest  blessing  of  money,  I  think,  is 
the  opportunity  it  gives  for  travel.  I  have 
been  glad,  too,  so  many  times,  that  we  are 
able  to  afford  all  these  doctors  and  nurses. 
Think  of  the  poor  people  who  must  suffer 
always  because  they  cannot  command  services 
which  are  necessarily  high-priced." 

Barbara's  senses  reeled  and  the  cold,  steel 
fingers  clutched  more  closely  at  the  aching 
fibre  of  her  heart.  Until  this  moment,  she 
had  not  thought  of  the  financial  aspects  of  her 
situation — it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  Doc 
tor  Conrad  and  the  blue  and  white  nurses  and 
even  the  red-haired  young  man  would  expect 
to  be  paid.  And  when  her  father  went  to  the 
hospital — "  I  shall  have  to  sew  night  and  day 
all  the  rest  of  my  life,"  she  thought,  "and,  even 
then,  die  in  debt." 

But  over  and  above  and  beyond  it  all  stood 
the  Lie,  that  had  lived  in  her  house  for  twenty 
years  and  more  and  was  now  to  be  cast  out, 
if — Barbara's  heart  stood  still  in  horror  be 
cause,  for  the  merest  fraction  of  an  instant, 
she  had  dared  to  hope  that  her  father  might 
never  see  again. 

"  I  could  not  have  gone  alone,"  the  old  man 
was  saying,  "  and  even  if  I  could,  I  should  never 
have  left  you,  but  now,  I  think,  the  time  is 
coming.  I  have  dreamed  all  my  life  of  the 
strange  countries  beyond  the  sea,  and  longed 
to  go.  Your  dear  mother  and  I  were  going, 


Ube  lie 


214 


flower  ot  tbe  Dusft 


in  a  little  while,  but  —  "  His  lips  quivered 
and  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"What  would  you  see,  Daddy,  if  you  had 
your  choice?  Tell  me  the  three  things  in  the 
world  that  you  most  want  to  see."  With 
supreme  effort,  Barbara  put  self  aside  and 
endeavoured  to  lead  him  back  to  happier 
things. 

"Three  things?"  he  repeated.  "Let  me 
think.  If  God  should  give  me  back  my  sight 
for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  before  I  died,  I 
should  choose  to  see,  first,  your  dear  mother's 
letter  in  which  she  says  that  she  died  loving 
me;  next,  your  mother  herself  as  she  was  just 
before  she  died,  and  then,  dear,  my  Flower  of 
the  Dusk  —  my  baby  whom  I  never  have  seen. 
Perhaps,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "perhaps 
I  should  rather  see  you  than  Constance,  for, 
in  a  very  little  while,  I  should  meet  her  past 
the  sunset,  where  she  has  waited  so  long  for 
me.  But  the  letter  would  come  first,  Barbara 
—  can  you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed,  "  I  understand." 

The  hope  in  her  heart  died.  She  could  not 
ask  for  the  letter.  He  took  it  from  his  pocket 
as  though  it  were  a  jewel  of  great  price.  "  Put 
my  finger  on  the  words  that  say,  '  I  love  him 
still.'  " 

Blinded  with  tears  and  choked  by  sobs, 
Barbara  pointed  out  the  line.  That,  at  least, 
was  true.  The  old  man  raised  it  to  his  lips 


Betrayal  215 


as  a  monk  might  raise  his  crucifix  when  kneel- 
ing  in  penitential  prayer. 

"  I  keep  it  always  near  me,"  he  said,  softly. 
"  I  shall  keep  it  until  I  can  see." 

Long  after  he  had  gone  to  bed,  Barbara  lay 
trembling.  The  problem  that  had  risen  up 
before  her  without  warning  seemed  to  have 
no  possible  solution.  If  he  recovered  his 
sight,  she  could  not  keep  him  from  knowing 
their  poverty.  One  swift  glance  would  show 
him  all — and  destroy  his  faith  in  her.  That 
was  unavoidable.  But — need  he  know  that 
the  dead  had  deceived  him  too? 

The  innate  sex-loyalty,  which  is  strong  in 
all  women  who  are  really  fine,  asserted  itself 
in  full  power  now.  It  was  not  only  the  desire 
to  save  her  father  pain  that  made  Barbara 
resolve,  at  any  cost,  to  keep  the  betraying  letter 
from  him.  It  was  also  the  secret  loyalty, 
not  of  a  child  to  an  unknown  mother,  but  of 
woman  to  woman — of  sex  to  sex. 

The  house  was  very  still.  Outside,  a  belated 
cricket  kept  up  his  cheery  fiddling  as  he  fared 
to  his  hidden  home.  Sometimes  a  leaf  fell 
and  rustled  down  the  road  ahead  of  a  va 
grant  wind.  The  clock  ticked  monotonously. 
Second  by  second  and  minute  by  minute, 
To-Morrow  advanced  upon  Barbara;  that  To- 
Morrow  which  must  be  made  surely  right  by 
the  deeds  of  To-Day. 


216 


fflower  ot  tbe  H>usfc 


IPanfebinq 
Dopes 


"  If  I  could  go,"  murmured  Barbara.  She 
was  free  of  the  plaster  and  she  could  move  about 
in  bed  easily.  Ironically  enough,  her  crutches 
leaned  against  the  farther  wall,  in  sight  but 
as  completely  out  of  reach  as  though  they  were 
in  the  next  room. 

Barbara  sat  up  in  bed  and,  cautiously, 
placed  her  two  tiny  bare  feet  on  the  floor. 
With  great  effort,  she  stood  up,  sustained  by 
a  boundless  hope.  She  discovered  that  she 
could  stand,  even  though  she  ached  miserably, 
but  when  she  attempted  to  move,  she  fell  back 
upon  the  bed.  She  could  not  walk  a  step. 

Faint  with  fear  and  pain,  she  got  back  into 
bed.  She  knew,  now,  all  that  the  red-haired 
young  man  had  refused  to  tell  her.  He  was 
too  kind  to  say  that  she  was  not  to  walk,  after 
all.  He  was  leaving  it  for  Doctor  Conrad — 
or  Eloise. 

Objects  in  the  room  danced  before  her 
mockingly.  Her  crutches  were  veiled  by  a 
mist — those  friendly  crutches  which  had  served 
her  so  well  and  were  now  out  of  her  reach. 
But  Barbara  had  no  time  for  self-pity.  The 
dominant  need  of  the  hour  was  pressing  heavily 
upon  her. 

With  icy,  shaking  fingers,  Barbara  rang  her 
bell.  Presently  Miriam  came  in,  attired  in  a 
flannel  dressing-gown  which  was  hopelessly 
unbecoming.  Barbara  was  moved  to  hysteri 
cal  laughter,  but  she  bit  her  lips. 


JBetra^ai 


217 


"Aunt  Miriam,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep  her 
voice  even,  "  father  has  a  letter  of  mine  in  his 
coat  pocket  which  I  should  like  to  read  again 
to-night.  Will  you  bring  me  his  coat,  please  ?" 

Miriam  turned  away  without  a  word.  Her 
face  was  inscrutable. 

"Don't  wake  him,"  called  Barbara,  in  a 
shrill  whisper.  "  If  he  is  not  asleep,  wait  until 
he  is.  I  would  not  have  him  wakened,  but  I 
must  have  the  coat  to-night." 

From  his  closed  door  came  the  sound  of  deep, 
regular  breathing.  Miriam  turned  the  knob 
noiselessly,  opened  the  door,  and  slipped  in. 
When  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  she  found  the  coat  easily.  It  had 
not  taken  long.  Even  Barbara  might  well  be 
surprised  at  her  quickness. 

Perhaps  the  letter  was  not  in  his  coat — it 
might  be  somewhere  else.  At  any  rate,  it 
would  do  no  harm  to  make  sure  before  going 
in  to  Barbara.  Miriam  went  into  her  own  room 
and  calmly  lighted  a  candle. 

Yes,  the  letter  was  there — two  sheets:  one  in 
ink,  in  Constance's  hand,  the  other,  in  pencil, 
written  by  Barbara.  Why  should  Barbara 
write  to  one  who  was  blind  ? 

With  her  curiosity  now  thoroughly  aroused, 
Miriam  hastily  read  both  letters,  then  put  them 
back.  Her  lips  were  curled  in  a  sneer  when 
she  took  the  coat  into  Barbara's  room  and 
gave  it  to  her  without  speaking. 


letter 
IRecoveteb 


2l8 


jflower  of  tbe  Busk 


Ube 

letter 


The  girl  thrust  an  eager  hand  into  the  inner 
pocket  and,  with  almost  a  sob  of  relief,  took 
out  her  mother's  letter  and  her  own  version 
of  it. 

"Thank  you,  Aunty,"  breathed  Barbara. 
"I  am  sorry — to — to— disturb  you,  but  there 
was  no — other  way." 

Miriam  went  out,  as  quietly  as  she  had  come, 
carrying  the  coat  and  leaving  Barbara's  door 
ajar.  When  she  was  certain  that  she  was 
alone,  Barbara  tore  the  letter  into  shreds. 
So  much,  at  least,  was  sure.  Her  father  should 
never  see  them,  whatever  he  might  think  of 
her. 

Miriam  was  standing  outside  the  blind  man's 
door.  She  fancied  she  heard  him  stir.  It  did 
not  matter — there  was  plenty  of  time  before 
morning  to  return  the  coat.  She  took  it  back 
into  her  own  room  and  sat  down  to  think. 

Her  mirror  reflected  her  face  and  the  un 
becoming  dressing-gown.  The  candlelight, how 
ever,  was  kind.  It  touched  gently  upon  the 
grey  in  her  hair,  hid  the  dark  hollows  under 
her  eyes,  and  softened  the  lines  in  her  face. 
It  lent  a  touch  of  grace  to  her  work-worn 
hands,  moving  nervously  in  her  lap. 

After  twenty-one  years,  this  was  what  Con 
stance  had  to  say  to  Barbara — that  she  loved 
another  man,  that  Ambrose  North  was  not  to 
know  it,  and  that  she  did  not  quite  trust  Mir 
iam.  Also  that  Miriam  had  loved  Ambrose 


JBetrasal 


219 


North  and  had  never  quite  forgiven  Constance 
for  taking  him  away  from  her. 

Out  of  the  shadow  of  the  grave,  Miriam's 
secret  stared  her  in  the  face.  She  had  not 
dreamed,  until  she  read  the  letter,  that  Con 
stance  knew.  Barbara  knew  now,  too.  Mir 
iam  was  glad  that  Barbara  had  the  letter,  for 
she  knew  that,  in  all  probability,  she  would 
destroy  it. 

The  elaborate  structure  of  deceit  which  they 
had  so  carefully  reared  around  the  blind  man 
was  crumbling,  even  now.  If  he  recovered 
his  sight,  it  must  inevitably  fall.  He  would 
know,  in  an  instant  of  revelation,  that  Miriam 
was  old  and  ugly  and  not  beautiful,  as  she 
had  foolishly  led  him  to  believe,  years  ago, 
when  he  asked  how  much  time  had  changed 
her.  She  looked  pitifully  at  her  hands,  rough 
and  knotted  and  red  through  untiring  slavery 
for  him  and  his. 

She  and  Barbara  would  be  sacrificed — no, 
for  he  would  forgive  Barbara  anything.  She 
was  the  only  one  who  would  lose  through  his 
restored  vision,  unless  Constance  might,  in 
some  way,  be  revealed  to  him  as  she  was. 

"/  do  not  quite  trust  Miriam.  She  loved 
your  father  and  I  took  Mm  away  from  her." 
The  cruel  sentences  moved  crazily  before  her 
as  in  letters  of  fire. 

The  letter  was  gone.  Ambrose  North  would 
never  see  the  evidence  of  Constance's  distrust 


Grumbling 
Stiuctiuc 


220 


df  lower  ot  tbe  Duel? 


Scbemttu] 
flMrtam 


of  her,  nor  come,  without  warning,  upon  Mir 
iam's  pitiful  secret  which,  with  a  woman's 
pride,  she  would  hide  from  him  at  all  costs. 
None  the  less,  Constance  had  stabbed  her 
again.  A  ghostly  hand  clutching  a  dagger 
had  suddenly  come  up  from  the  grave,  and  the 
thrust  of  the  cold,  keen  steel  had  been  very  sure. 

For  twenty  years  and  more,  she  had  been 
tempted  to  read  to  the  blind  man  the  letter 
Constance  had  written  to  Laurence  Austin 
just  before  she  died.  For  that  length  of  time, 
her  desire  to  blacken  Constance,  in  the  hope 
that  the  grief-stricken  heart  might  once  more 
turn  to  her,  had  warred  with  her  love  and  her 
woman's  fear  of  hurting  the  one  she  loved. 
To-night,  even  in  the  face  of  the  letter  to 
Barbara,  she  knew  that  she  should  never  have 
courage  to  read  it  to  him,  nor  even  to  give  it 
to  him  with  her  own  hands. 

In  case  he  recovered  his  sight,  she  might 
leave  it  where  he  would  find  it.  She  was  glad, 
now,  that  the  envelope  was  torn,  for  he  would 
not  be  apt  to  open  a  letter  addressed  to  an 
other,  even  though  Constance  had  penned  the 
superscription  and  the  man  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  was  dead.  His  fine  sense  of  honour 
would,  undoubtedly,  lead  him  to  burn  it. 
But,  if  the  letter  were  in  a  plain  envelope, 
sealed,  and  she  should  leave  it  on  his  dresser, 
he  would  be  very  sure  to  open  it,  if  he  saw  it 
lying  there,  and  then 


Betrayal 


221 


Miriam  smiled.  Constance  would  be  paid  Ubt 
at  last  for  her  theft  of  another  woman's  suitor, 
for  her  faithlessness  and  her  cowardly  deser 
tion.  There  was  a  heavy  score  against  Con 
stance,  who  had  so  belied  the  meaning  of  her 
name,  and  the  twenty  years  had  added  com 
pound  interest.  North  might  not — probably 
would  not — turn  again  to  Miriam  after  all 
these  years;  she  saw  that  plainly  to-night  for 
the  first  time,  but  he  would,  at  any  rate,  see 
that  he  had  given  up  the  gold  for  the  dross. 

Miriam  got  her  work-box  and  began  to  mend 
the  coat  lining.  She  had  not  known  that  it 
was  torn.  She  wondered  how  he  would  feel 
when  he  discovered  that  the  precious  letter 
was  lost.  Would  he  blame  Barbara — or  her? 

It  would  be  too  bad  to  have  him  lose  the 
comfort  those  two  sheets  of  paper  had  given 
him.  Miriam  had  seen  him  as  he  sat  alone 
for  hours  in  his  own  room,  with  the  door  ajar, 
caressing  the  written  pages  as  though  they 
were  alive  and  answered  him  with  love  for 
love.  She  knew  it  was  Constance's  letter  to 
Barbara,  but  she  had  lacked  curiosity  as  to  its 
contents  until  to-night. 

The  letter  to  Laurence  Austin  was  written  on 
paper  of  the  same  size.  There  was  still  some 
of  it,  in  Constance's  desk,  in  the  living-room 
downstairs.  Suppose  she  should  replace  one 
letter  with  the  other,  and,  if  he  ever  read  it, 
let  him  have  it  all  out  with  Barbara,  who  was 


222 


fflower  of  tbc  HHisfc 


Subtle 


trying  to  save  him  from  knowledge  that  he 
should  have  had  long  ago. 

The  coat  slipped  to  the  floor  as  Miriam 
considered  the  plan.  Perhaps  one  of  them 
would  ask  her  what  it  was.  In  that  case  she 
would  say,  carelessly:  "Oh,  a  letter  Constance 
left  for  Laurence  Austin.  I  did  not  think  it 
best  to  deliver  it,  as  it  could  do  no  good  and 
might  do  a  great  deal  of  harm."  She  would 
have  the  courage  for  that,  surely,  but,  if  she 
failed  at  the  critical  moment,  she  could  say, 
simply:  "I  do  not  know/' 

She  crept  downstairs  and  returned  with  a 
sheet  of  Constance's  note-paper.  Neither  she 
nor  Barbara  had  ever  been  obliged  to  use  it, 
and  it  was  far  back  in  a  corner  of  a  deep 
drawer,  together  with  North's  check-book, 
which  had  been  useless  for  so  many  years. 

As  she  had  expected,  it  exactly  matched  the 
other  sheet.  She  folded  the  two  together, 
with  the  letter  to  Laurence  Austin  inside. 
North  would  not  be  disappointed,  now,  when 
he  reached  into  his  pocket  and  found  no  fond 
letter  from  his  dead  but  still  beloved  Con 
stance.  Barbara  could  not  change  this,  by 
rewriting  into  anything  save  a  cry  of  pas 
sionate  love. 

Miriam's  whole  being  glowed  with  satis 
faction.  She  thrilled  with  the  pleasure  of  this 
subtle  revenge  upon  Constance,  who  was  fully 
repaid,  now,  for  writing  as  she  had. 


Betrayal 


223 


"  /  do  not  quite  trust  Miriam.  She  loved  your 
father  and  I  took  him  away  from  her." 

She  repeated  the  words  in  a  whisper,  and 
smiled  to  think  of  the  deeply  loving,  passionate 
page  to  another  man  that  had  filled  the  place. 
Let  the  Fates  do  their  worst  now,  for  when  he 
should  read  it 

Some  way,  Miriam  was  very  sure  that  his 
sight  was  to  be  restored  to  him.  She  per 
ceived,  now,  the  irony  of  his  caressing  the  let 
ter  Constance  had  written  to  Barbara.  How 
much  more  ironical  it  would  be  to  see  him, 
with  that  unearthly  light  upon  his  face,  moving 
his  hand  across  the  page  Constance  had  written 
to  Laurence  Austin  just  before  she  died. 
Miriam  well  knew  that  the  other  letters  had 
come  first  and  that  Constance's  last  word  had 
been  to  the  man  she  loved. 

The  hours  passed  on,  slowly.  The  mist  that 
hung  over  the  sea  was  faintly  touched  with 
dawn  before  Miriam  arose,  and,  taking  the 
coat,  went  back  to  Ambrose  North's  room. 
She  paused  outside  the  door,  but  all  was 
still. 

She  entered,  quietly,  and  laid  the  coat  on  a 
chair.  She  started  back  to  the  door,  but, 
before  she  touched  the  knob,  the  blind  man 
stirred  in  his  sleep. 

"Constance,"  he  said,  drowsily,  "is  that 
you  ?  Have  you  come  back,  Beloved  ?  It  has 
seemed  so  long." 


ICbe  f  ron^ 
>f  ff  ate 


224 


jflower  of  tbe  IPusfc 


Surging 


Miriam  set  her  lips  grimly  against  the  surging 
hatred  for  the  dead  that  welled  up  within  her. 
She  went  out  hastily,  and  noiselessly  closed 
the  door. 


225 


XVII 

Hgain" 

BARBARA  did  not  mind  lying  in  bed,  now 
that  the  heavy  plaster  cast  was  gone 
and  she  could  move  about  with  comparative 
freedom.  Every  day,  Aunt  Miriam  massaged 
her  with  fragrant  oils,  and  she  faithfully  took 
the  slight  exercises  she  was  bidden  to  take, 
even  though  she  knew  it  was  of  no  use.  She 
was  glad,  now,  that  she  had  kept  the  crutches 
in  sight,  for  they  had  steadily  reminded  her 
not  to  hope  too  much. 

Still,  she  was  bitterly  disappointed,  though 
she  thought  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  hope 
— that  she  had  done  it  only  because  Eloise 
wanted  her  to.  Perhaps  the  red-haired  young 
man  knew,  and  perhaps  not — she  was  not  so 
sure,  now,  that  he  had  refrained  from  telling 
her  through  motives  of  kindness.  But  Doctor 
Conrad  would  know,  instantly,  and  he  and 
Eloise  would  be  very  sorry.  Barbara  wiped 
away  her  tears  and  compressed  her  lips  tightly 
together.  "  I  won't  cry,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't." 

Her  father  had   gone  to  the  city  with  the 


226 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfc 


H  long 
farewell 


red-haired  young  man  and  the  nurse.  He  had 
been  gone  more  than  a  week,  and  Barbara 
had  received  no  news  of  him  save  a  brief  note 
from  Doctor  Conrad.  He  said  that  her  father 
had  been  to  a  specialist  of  whom  he  had  spoken 
to  her,  and  that  an  operation  had  been  decided 
upon.  He  would  tell  her  all  about  it,  he 
added,  when  he  saw  her. 

Day  by  day,  Barbara  lived  over  the  last 
evening  she  and  her  father  had  spent  together 
— all  the  fear  and  foreboding.  She  did  not  for 
a  moment  regret  that  she  had  taken  his  precious 
letter  from  him  and  destroyed  it.  She  would 
face  whatever  she  must,  and  as  bravely  as 
she  might,  but  he  should  not  be  hurt  in  that 
manner — she  had  taken  the  one  sure  way  to 
spare  him  that. 

When  he  came  back,  and  realised  to  the 
full  how  steadily  she  had  deceived  him,  he 
could  love  her  no  more.  When  he  said  good 
bye  to  her  the  morning  he  went  away,  it  had 
been  good-bye  in  more  ways  than  one.  It 
was  a  long  farewell  to  the  love  and  confidence 
that  had  bound  him  to  her;  an  eternal  separa 
tion,  in  spirit,  from  the  child  he  had  loved. 

The  tears  came  when  she  remembered  how 
he  had  said  good-bye  to  her.  Aunt  Miriam 
and  the  red-haired  young  man  and  the  nurse 
had  left  them  alone  together  for  what  might 
be  the  last  time  on  earth,  and  was  most  surely 
the  last  time  as  regarded  the  old,  sweet  relation 


Hgain" 


227 


so  soon  to  be  severed — unless  he  came  back 
blind,  as  he  had  gone. 

The  old  man  had  leaned  over  her  and  kissed 
her  twice.  "Flower  of  the  Dusk,"  he  had 
said,  with  surpassing  tenderness,  "when  I  come 
back,  the  dusk  will  change  to  dawn.  If  the 
darkness  lifts  I  shall  see  you  first,  and  so,  for  a 
little  while,  good-bye." 

He  had  gone  downstairs  quickly  and  lightly, 
as  one  who  is  glad  to  go.  When  she  last  saw 
him,  he  was  walking  ahead  of  the  young  doctor 
and  the  nurse,  straight  and  eager  and  almost 
young  again,  sustained  by  the  same  boundless 
hope  that  had  given  Barbara  strength  for  her 
ordeal. 

It  was  almost  two  weeks  before  Doctor  Con 
rad  came  down.  He  had  been  obliged,  lately, 
to  miss  several  Sundays  with  Eloise.  When 
Aunt  Miriam  came  and  told  Barbara  that  he 
was  downstairs,  she  felt  a  sudden,  sharp  pang 
of  disappointment,  not  for  herself,  but  for  him. 
He  had  tried  so  hard  and  done  so  much,  and 
to  know  that  he  had  failed —  Even  in  the 
face  of  her  own  bitter  outlook,  she  could  be 
sorry  for  him. 

But,  when  he  came  in,  he  did  not  seem  to 
need  anyone's  sympathy.  He  was  so  mag 
nificently  young  and  strong,  so  full  of  splendid 
vitality.  Barbara's  failing  courage  rose  in 
answer  to  him  and  she  smiled  as  she  offered 
a  frail  little  hand. 


H>r.  Conrab 
Comes 
Hcmin 


228 


fflovver  of  tbe 


TTbe  fl&ain 
Urouble 


"Well,  little  girl,"  said  Doctor  Allan,  sitting 
down  on  the  bed  beside  her,  "  how  goes  it  ?" 

"Tell  me  about  father,"  begged  Barbara, 
ignoring  the  question.  . 

"Father  is  doing  very  well,"  Allan  assured 
her.  "He  has  recovered  nicely  from  the 
operation  and  we  have  strong  hope  for  the 
sight  of  one  eye  if  not  for  both.  I  can  almost 
promise  you  partial  restoration,  but,  of  course, 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  definitely  until  later. 
His  heart  is  very  weak — that  seems  to  be  the 
main  trouble  now." 

Barbara  lay  very  still,  with  her  eyes  closed. 

"Aren't  you  glad?"  asked  Doctor  Allan, 
in  surprise. 

"Yes,  answered  Barbara,  with  difficulty. 
"  Indeed,  yes.  I  was  just  thinking." 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  he  smiled. 

"Are  they  going  to  take  off  the  bandages 
there  at  the  hospital?" 

"Why,  yes — of  course." 

"They  mustn't!"  cried  Barbara,  sitting  up 
in  bed.  "Or,  if  they  have  to,  I  must  go  there. 
Doctor  Conrad,  I  must  see  my  father  before 
he  regains  his  sight." 

"Why?"  asked  Allan.  "Don't  cry,  little 
girl — tell  me." 

His  voice  was  very  soothing,  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  took  hold  of  her  fluttering  hands.  The 
strong  clasp  was  friendly  and  reassuring. 

"  Because  I  've  lied  to  him,"  sobbed  Barbara. 


*1Rev>er  Bgain"  22Q 


"  I  've  made  him  think  we  were  rich  instead  of 
poor.  He  does  n't  know  that  I  Ve  earned  our 
living  all  these  years  by  sewing,  and  that  we  've 
had  to  sell  everything  that  anybody  would  buy 
— the  pearls  and  laces  and  everything.  He 
hates  a  lie  and  he  '11  despise  me.  It  will  break 
his  heart.  I  'd  rather  tell  him  myself  than  to 
have  him  find  it  out." 

"Little  girl,"  said  Allan,  in  his  deep,  tender 
voice; "  dear  little  girl.  Nobody  on  earth  could 
blame  you  for  doing  that,  least  of  all  your 
father.  If  he  's  half  the  man  I  think  he  is, 
he  '11  only  love  you  the  more  for  doing  it." 

Barbara  looked  up  at  him,  her  deep  blue  eyes 
brimming  with  tears.  "Do  you  think,"  she 
asked,  chokingly,  "that  he  ever  can  forgive 
me?" 

Allan  laughed.  "In  a  minute,"  he  assured 
her.  "Of  course  he  '11  forgive  you.  But  I  '11 
promise  you  that  you  shall  see  him  first.  As 
far  as  that  is  concerned,  I  can  take  the  band 
ages  off  myself,  after  he  comes  home." 

"Can  you  really?    And  will  you?" 

"  Surely.  Now  don't  fret  about  it  any  more. 
Let 's  see  how  you  're  getting  on." 

In  an  instant  the  man  was  pushed  into  the 
background  and  the  great  surgeon  took  his 
place.  He  went  at  his  work  with  the  precision 
and  power  of  a  perfect  machine,  guided  by  that 
unspoken  sympathy  which  was  his  inestimable 
gift.  He  tested  muscles  and  bones  and  turned 


23o  Jflower  ot  tbc  Dusfe 


the  joint  in  its  socket.  Barbara  watched  his 
face  anxiously.  His  forehead  was  set  in  a 
frown  and  his  eyes  were  keen,  but  the  rest  of 
his  face  was  impassive. 

"Sit  up,"  he  said.  "Now,  turn  this  way. 
That 's  right — now  stand  up." 

Barbara  obeyed  him,  trembling.  In  a 
minute  more  he  would  know. 

"Stand  on  this  side  only.  Now,  can  you 
walk?" 

"No,"  answered  Barbara,  in  a  sad  little 
whisper,  "  I  can't."  She  reached  for  her  faith 
ful  crutches,  which  leaned  against  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  but  Doctor  Allan  snatched  them  away 
from  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  his  face  illumined. 
"Never  again." 

Barbara  gasped.  "What  do  you  mean?" 
she  asked,  terror  and  joy  strangely  mingling 
in  her  voice. 

"Never  again,"  Doctor  Allan  repeated. 
"  You  're  never  to  have  your  crutches 
again." 

Barbara  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 
She  stood  there  in  her  little  white  night-gown, 
which  was  not  long  enough  to  cover  her  bare 
pink  feet,  with  a  great  golden  braid  hanging 
over  either  shoulder  and  far  below  her  waist. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  very  wide  and  dark. 

"Am  I  going  to  walk  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  queer 
little  whisper. 


'"Never  B^ain"  231 

"Certainly,  except  when  you  're  riding,  or 
sitting  down,  or  asleep." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  she  answered,  with 
quivering  lips.  Then  she  threw  her  arms 
around  Doctor  Allan's  neck  and  kissed  him 
with  the  sweet  impulsiveness  of  a  child. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  softly.  "Now  we  '11 
walk." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  Barbara 
took  a  few  stumbling  steps.  Aunt  Miriam 
opened  the  door  and  came  in. 

"Look,"  cried   Barbara.     "I'm  walking." 

"So  I  see,"  replied  Miriam.  "I  heard  the 
noise  and  came  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  wanted  something." 
She  retreated  as  swiftly  as  she  had  come. 
Allan  stared  after  her  and  seemed  to  be  on  the 
verge  of  saying  something  very  much  to  the 
point,  but  fortunately  held  his  peace. 

"  You  '11  have  to  learn"  he  said,  to  Barbara, 
with  a  new  gentleness  in  his  tone.  "Your 
balance  is  entirely  different  and  these  muscles 
and  joints  will  have  to  learn  to  work.  Keep 
up  the  exercise  and  the  massage.  You  can 
have  a  cane,  if  you  like,  but  no  crutches.  Is 
there  someone  who  would  help  you  for  an 
hour  or  so  every  day  ?" 

"Roger  would,"  she  said,  "or  Aunt 
Miriam." 

"  Better  get  Roger — he  '11  be  stronger.  And 
also  more  willing,"  he  thought,  but  he  did  not 


fflower  of  tbe 


H  Oi-.it 
Success 


say  so.     "Don't  tire  yourself,  but  walk  a  lit 
tle  every  day,  as  you  feel  like  it." 

When  he  went,  he  took  the  crutches  with 
him.  "  You  might  be  tempted,"  he  explained, 
"  if  they  were  here,  and  your  father's  cane  is  all 
you  really  need.  Be  a  good  girl  and  I  '11  come 
up  again  soon/' 

Eloise  was  watching  from  the  piazza  of  the 
hotel,  and,  when  he  came  in  sight,  she  went 
up  the  road  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  Allan,"  she  cried,  breathlessly,  as  she 
saw  the  crutches.  "Is  she ?" 

"She  's  all  right.  It 's  one  of  the  most  suc 
cessful  operations  ever  done  in  that  line,  even 
if  I  do  say  it  as  should  n't." 

"Of  course,"  smiled  Eloise,  looking  up  at 
him  fondly.  "I  know  that." 

They  walked  together  down  to  the  shore, 
followed  by  the  deep  and  open  interest  of 
the  rocking-chair  brigade,  marshalled  twenty 
strong,  on  the  hotel  veranda.  It  was  October 
and  the  children  had  all  been  taken  back  to 
school.  The  exquisite  peace  of  the  place  was 
a  thing  to  dream  about  and  be  spoken  of  only 
in  reverent  whispers. 

The  tide  was  going  out.  Allan  hurled  one 
of  the  crutches  far  out  to  sea.  "They've 
worked  faithfully  and  long,"  he  said,  "and 
they  deserve  a  little  jaunt  to  Europe.  Here 
goes." 


"lttcx>er  Bgafn" 


233 


He  was  about  to  throw  the  other,  but  Eloise 
took  it  from  him.  "Let  me,"  she  suggested. 
"  I  'd  love  to  throw  a  crutch  over  to  Europe." 

She  tried  it,  with  the  customary  feminine 
awkwardness.  It  did  not  go  beyond  the 
shallow  water,  and  speared  itself,  sharp  end 
downward,  in  the  soft  sand. 

Allan  laughed  uproariously  and  Eloise  col 
oured  with  shame.  "Never  mind,"  she  said, 
with  affected  carelessness,  "you  couldn't 
have  made  it  stick  up  in  the  sand  like  that, 
and  I  think  it  '11  get  to  Europe  just  as  soon  as 
yours  does,  so  there." 

They  sat  down  on  the  beach,  sheltered  from 
prying  eyes  by  a  sand  dune,  and  directly  op 
posite  the  crutch,  which  wobbled  with  every 
wave  that  struck  it.  "Think  what  it  means," 
said  Eloise,  "and  think  what  it  might  mean. 
It  might  be  part  of  a  shipwreck,  or  someone 
who  needed  it  very  much  might  have  dropped 
it  accidentally  out  of  a  boat,  or  the  one  who 
had  it  might  have  died,  after  long  suffering." 

"Or,"  continued  Allan,  "someone  might 
have  outgrown  the  need  of  it  and  thrown  it 
away,  as  the  tiny  dwellers  in  the  sea  cast  off 
their  shells." 

Eloise  turned  to  him,  with  her  deep  eyes 
soft  with  luminous  mist.  "  I  have  n't  thanked 
you,"  she  said,  "for  all  you  have  done  for  my 
little  girl."  She  lifted  her  sweet  face  to  his. 

"  If  you  're  going  to  thank  me  like  that," 


234 


flower  of  tbe  2>u0fe 


said  Allan,  huskily,  "I  '11  cut  up  the  whole 
township  and  not  even  bother  to  saVe  the 
pieces." 

"You  needn't,"  laughed  Eloise,  "but  it 
was  dear  of  you.  You  've  never  done  any 
thing  half  so  lovely  in  all  your  life/ 

"It  was  you  who  did  it,  dear.  I  was  but 
the  humble  instrument  in  your  hands." 

"Was  Barbara  glad?" 

"  I  think  so.  She  kissed  me,  too,  but  not 
like  that." 

"Did  she,  really?  The  sweet,  shy  little 
thing.  Bless  her  heart." 

"  I  infer,  Miss  Wynne,"  remarked  Allan,  in 
a  judicial  tone,  "that  you  're  not  jealous." 

"Jealous?  I  should  say  not.  Anybody  who 
can  get  you  away  from  me,"  she  added,  as  an 
afterthought,  "can  have  you  with  my  blessing 
and  a  few  hints  as  to  your  management/' 

"Safe  offer,"  he  commented.  "Are  you 
really  glad  I  've  done  what  I  have  for  Barbara?" 

"Oh,  my  dear!     So  glad  !" 

"Then,"  suggested  Allan,  hopefully,  "don't 
you  think  I  should  be  thanked  again  ?" 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you  about  that  dear  old 
man,"  said  Eloise,  after  a  little.  "  Is  he  going 
to  be  all  right,  too?" 

"Pretty  much  so,  I  think.  "We're  very 
sure  that  he  can  see  a  little  —  he  will  not  be 
totally  blind.  He  will  probably  need  glasses, 


44  ttever  B0ain  " 


235 


but  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  that.  His 
heart  is  the  main  trouble  now.  Any  sudden 
excitement  or  shock  might  easily  prove  fatal." 

"Of  course  he  won't  have  that/' 

"We  '11  hope  not,  but  life  itself  is  more  or 
less  exciting  and  you  can  never  tell  what 's 
going  to  break  loose  next.  I  have  long  since 
ceased  to  be  surprised  at  anything,  except  the 
fact  that  you  love  me.  I  can't  get  used  to 
that." 

"You  will,  though,"  said  Eloise,  a  little 
sadly.  "  You  '11  get  so  used  to  it  that  you 
won't  even  look  up  when  I  come  into  the 
room — you  '11  keep  right  on  reading  your 
paper." 

"Impossible." 

"That  's  what  they  all  say,  but  it 's  so." 

"Have  all  your  previous  husbands  changed 
so  quickly  that  you  're  afraid  to  try  me  ?" 

"  I  've  seen  it  so  much,"  sighed  Eloise. 

A  great  light  broke  in  upon  Allan.  "  Is  that 
why?"  he  demanded,  putting  his  arm  around 
her.  "No,  you  need  n't  try  to  get  away,  for 
you  can't.  Is  that  why  I  'm  sentenced  to  all 
this  infernal  waiting?" 

Eloise  bit  her  lips  and  did  not  answer. 

"  Is  it  ?"  he  asked,  authoritatively. 

"A  little,"  she  whispered.  "This  is  so  sweet, 
and  sometimes  I  'm  afraid " 

"Darling!  Darling!"  he  said,  drawing  her 
closer.  "  You  make  me  ashamed  of  my  fellow- 


WUU  lit 
last? 


236 


jflower  of  tbe  EHtsfe 


JBanb  of 
life 


men  when  you  say  that.  But  do  you  want  the 
year  to  stand  still  always  at  June  ?" 

"  No/'  she  answered.  "  I  'm  willing  to  grow 
with  Love,  from  all  the  promise  of  Spring  into 
the  harvest  and  even  into  Winter,  as  long  as 
the  sweetness  is  there.  Don't  you  understand, 
Allan?  Who  would  wish  for  June  when  Indian 
Summer  fills  all  the  silences  with  shimmering 
amethystine  haze?  And  who  would  give  up 
a  keen,  crisp  Winter  day,  when  the  air  sets  the 
blood  to  tingling,  for  apple  blossoms  or  even 
roses  ?  It 's  not  that — I  only  want  the  sweet 
ness  to  stay." 

"Please  God,  it  shall/'  returned  Allan, 
solemnly.  He  was  profoundly  moved. 

"It  should  n't  be  so  hard  to  keep  it,"  went 
on  Eloise,  thoughtfully.  "  I  've  been  thinking 
about  it  a  good  deal,  lately.  Life  will  give  us 
back  whatever  we  put  into  it.  In  a  way,  it 's 
just  like  a  bank.  Put  joy  into  the  world 
and  it  will  come  back  to  you  with  com 
pound  interest,  but  you  can't  check  out 
either  money  or  happiness  when  you  have 
made  no  deposits." 

"Very  true,"  he  responded.  "I  never 
thought  of  it  in  just  that  way  before." 

"  If  you  put  joy  in,  and  love,  unselfishness, 
and  a  little  laughter,  and  perfect  faith — I 
think  they  '11  all  come  back,  some  day." 

A  scarlet  leaf  from  a  maple  danced  along 
the  beach,  blown  from  some  distant  bough 


"  1Re\>er 


237 


where  the  frost  had  set  a  flaming  signal  in  the 
still  September  night.  A  yellow  leaf  from  an 
elm  swiftly  caught  it,  and  together  they 
floated  out  to  sea. 

"Sweetheart,"  said  Allan,  "do  you  see? 
The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall  and  in  a  little 
while  the  trees  will  be  bare.  How  long  are 
you  going  to  keep  me  waiting  for  wife  and 
home?" 

«I— don't— know." 

"Dear,  can't  you  trust  me?" 

"Yes,  always,"  she  answered,  quickly. 
"You  know  that." 

"Then  when  ?" 

"When  all  the  colour  is  gone,"  she  said,  af 
ter  a  pause.  "When  the  forest  is  desolate  and 
the  wind  sighs  through  bare  branches — when 
Winter  chills  our  hearts — then  I  will  come  to 
you,  and  for  a  little  while  bring  back  the 
Spring." 

"Truly,  Sweetheart?" 

"Truly." 

"You'll  never  be  sorry,  dear."  He  took 
her  into  his  arms  and  sealed  her  promise 
upon  her  lips. 


TJdben  ? 


Blone  in 
tbc   Office 


XVIII 

passing  of  fibo 


FI  DO  had  been  in  the  office  alone  for  almost 
three  hours.  The  old  man,  who  he 
knew  was  his  master,  and  the  young  man,  who 
was  inclined  to  be  impatient  with  him  when 
he  felt  playful,  had  both  gone  out.  The  door 
was  locked  and  there  was  nobody  on  the  other 
side  of  it  to  answer  a  vigorous  scratch  or  even 
a  pleading  whine.  When  people  knocked. 
they  went  away  again,  almost  immediately. 

The  window-sills  were  too  high  for  a  little 
dog  to  reach,  and  there  was  no  chair  near.  He 
walked  restlessly  around  the  office,  stopping 
at  intervals  to  sit  down  and  thoughtfully  con 
template  his  feet,  which  were  much  too  large 
for  the  rest  of  him.  He  chased  a  fly  that 
tickled  his  ear,  but  it  eluded  him,  and  now 
buzzed  temptingly  on  a  window-pane,  out  of 
his  reach. 

It  seemed  that  something  serious  must  have 
happened,  for  Fido  had  never  been  left  alone 
so  long  before.  If  he  had  known  that  the 


passing  of  fibo  239 


old  man  was  conversing  pleasantly  with  some     Pan^s  of 
fellow-citizens  at  the  grocery  store,  and  that 
the  young  one  had  his  arm  around  a  laughing 
girl  in  white,  trying  to  teach  her  to  walk,  he 
would  have  been  very  indignant  indeed. 

Several  times,  lately,  Fido  had  noticed,  the 
young  man  had  gone  out  shortly  after  the 
old  one  went  to  the  post-office.  It  would 
be,  usually,  half  a  day  later  when  his  master 
returned  with  a  letter  or  two,  or  often  with 
none.  The  young  man  took  pains  to  get  back 
before  the  old  one  did,  which  was  well,  for  there 
should  always  be  someone  in  a  lawyer's  office 
to  receive  clients  and  keep  dogs  from  being 
lonely. 

The  pangs  of  a  devastating  hunger  assailed 
Fido,  which  was  not  strange,  for  it  was  long 
past  the  hour  when  the  old  man  usually  took 
a  bulky  parcel  out  of  his  desk,  spread  a  news 
paper  upon  the  floor,  and  bade  Fido  eat  of  cold 
potatoes,  meat,  and  bread.  There  was,  nearly 
always,  a  nice,  juicy  bone  to  beguile  the  tedium 
of  the  afternoon.  Fido  and  the  old  man  sel 
dom  went  home  to  supper  before  half  past 
five,  and  Fido  would  have  been  famished  were 
it  not  for  the  comfort  of  the  bone. 

He  sniffed  around  the  larger  of  the  two 
desks.  A  tempting  odour  came  from  a  drawer 
far  above.  He  stood  on  his  hind  legs  and 
reached  up  as  far  as  he  could,  but  the  drawer 
was  closed.  So  was  every  other  drawer  in  the 


240 


Slower  of  tbe 


Ubc  little 


office,  except  one,  and  that  was  in  the  young 
man's  desk.  Probably  there  was  nothing  in 
it  for  a  hungry  dog — there  never  had  been. 

Still,  it  might  be  well  to  investigate.  Fido 
laboriously  climbed  up  on  the  chair  and  put 
his  paws  upon  the  edge  of  the  open  drawer. 
There  was  nothing  in  it  but  papers  and  a  small, 
square,  red  box  with  a  rubber  band  around  it. 

Fido  took  the  box  in  his  mouth  and  jumped 
down.  He  pushed  it  with  paws  and  nose  over 
to  his  own  particular  corner,  sniffing  appre 
ciatively  meanwhile.  It  took  much  vigorous 
chewing  to  get  the  rubber  band  off  and  to  make 
a  hole  in  one  corner  of  the  box,  out  of  which 
rolled  a  great  number  of  small,  cylindrical 
objects.  They  were  not  like  anything  Fido 
had  ever  eaten  before,  but  hungry  little  dogs 
must  take  what  they  can  find.  So  he  gulped 
them  all  down  but  one.  This  one  refused  to 
be  swallowed  and  Fido  quickly  repented  of  his 
rashness,  for  it  was  distinctly  not  good.  He 
ate  the  rubber  band  and  all  but  a  little  piece 
of  the  red  box  before  the  taste  was  quite  gone 
out  of  his  mouth.  Even  then,  a  drink  of 
fresh,  cool  water  would  have  been  very  ac 
ceptable,  but  there  was  nobody  to  care  whether 
a  little  dog  died  of  thirst  or  not. 

The  bluebottle  fly  buzzed  loudly  upon  the 
window-pane,  but  Fido  no  longer  aspired  to 
him.  A  vast  weariness  took  the  place  of  his 
former  restlessness.  He  sat  and  blinked  at 


Ube  passing  of 


241 


his  ill-assorted  feet  for  some  time,  then  dragged 
himself  lazily  toward  his  cushion  in  the 
corner.  Before  he  reached  it,  he  was  so  very 
sleepy  that  he  lay  down  upon  the  floor.  In  less 
than  five  minutes,  he  was  off  to  the  canine 
dreamland,  one  paw  still  caressingly  laid  over 
the  fragments  of  the  little  red  box. 

When  the  Judge  came  in,  an  hour  later,  he 
was  much  surprised  to  find  the  office  locked 
and  the  cards  of  three  valued  clients  on  the 
floor  under  the  door.  There  had  been  four, 
but  Fido  had  eaten  the  first  one.  Two  of  them 
were  marked  with  the  hour  of  the  call.  It 
indicated,  plainly,  to  a  logical  mind,  that 
Roger  had  left  the  office  soon  after  he  did, 
and  had  not  returned.  It  was  very  strange. 

Fido  slumbered  on,  though  hitherto  the 
sound  of  his  master's  step  would  awaken  him 
to  noisy  and  affectionate  demonstrations. 
The  Judge  turned  Fido  over  with  a  friendly 
foot,  but  there  was  no  answer  save  a  wide 
yawn.  He  brought  the  parcel  of  bread  and 
meat  and  opened  it,  leaving  it  on  the  floor 
close  by.  Then  he  took  a  chicken  bone  and 
held  it  to  the  sleeper's  nose,  but  Fido  turned 
away  as  though  from  an  annoying  fly. 

As  the  dog  had  never  before  failed  to  take 
immediate  interest  in  a  chicken  bone,  the 
Judge  was  alarmed.  He  picked  up  the  frag 
ments  of  the  little  red  box  and  wondered  if 


TTbe 

3ui>ge 

IReturns 


242 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Busfe 


anyone  could  have  poisoned  his  pet.  He 
brought  fresh  water,  but  Fido,  hitherto  pos 
sessed  of  an  unquenchable  thirst,  failed  to 
respond. 

When  Roger  came  in,  belated  and  breath 
less,  he  found  his  explanations  coldly  received. 
Whether  or  not  Barbara  North  ever  walked 
was  evidently  a  matter  of  no  particular  concern 
to  the  Judge.  It  was  also  of  no  immediate 
importance  that  clients  had  come  and  found 
the  office  empty,  even  though  one  of  them, 
presumably,  had  intended  to  settle  an  account 
of  long  standing.  The  vital  question  was 
simply  this:  what  was  the  matter  with  Fido? 

Roger  did  not  know.  Though  Fido's  disdain 
of  food  and  drink  might  be  abnormal,  his  po 
sition  on  the  floor  and  his  deep  breathing  were 
quite  natural. 

Then  the  fragments  of  the  little  red  box 
were  presented  to  Roger,  and  inquiry  made 
as  to  the  contents.  Also,  had  Roger  tried  to 
poison  the  Judge's  pet  ? 

Roger  had  not.  The  box  had  contained  a 
prescription  for  lumbago  which  Doctor  Con 
rad  had  given  his  mother.  It  was  in  the 
drawer  in  his  desk.  He  might  possibly  have 
left  the  drawer  open  —  probably  had,  as  the 
box  was  gone. 

The  Judge  was  deeply  desirous  of  knowing 
why  Mrs.  Austin's  lumbago  cure  should  be 
kept  in  the  office,  within  reach  of  unwary  pets. 


passing  of  jffto 


243 


After  considerable  hesitation,  Roger  explained. 

The  owner  of  Fido  was  highly  incensed. 
First,  he  condemned  the  entire  procedure  as 
"criminal  carelessness/'  setting  forth  his  argu 
ment  in  unparliamentary  language.  Then, 
remembering  that  Roger  had  not  really  loved 
Fido,  he  brought  forth  an  unworthy  motive, 
and  accused  the  hapless  young  man  of  mur 
derous  intent. 

Roger  would  kindly  borrow  the  miniature 
express  waggon  which  was  the  prized  possession 
of  the  postmaster's  small  son,  place  the  cushion 
in  it,  with  its  precious  burden,  and  convey 
Fido,  with  all  possible  tenderness,  to  his  other 
and  larger  cushion  in  the  Judge's  own  bedroom. 
He  would  take  the  cold  chicken,  too,  please, 
for  if  Fido  ever  wanted  anything  again  in  this 
world,  it  would  probably  be  chicken. 

The  Judge  would  follow  as  soon  as  he  had 
written  to  his  clients  and  expressed  his  regret 
that  his  clerk's  numerous  social  duties  did  not 
permit  of  his  giving  much  time  to  his  business. 
And,  the  Judge  added,  as  an  afterthought, 
if  Fido  should  die,  it  would  not  be  necessary 
for  Roger  to  return  to  the  office.  He  wanted 
someone  who  could  be  trusted  not  to  poison 
his  dog  while  he  was  out. 

Roger  was  too  much  disturbed  to  be  con 
scious  of  the  ludicrous  aspect  he  presented 
to  the  public  eye  as  he  went  down  the  main 
thoroughfare  of  Riverdale,  dragging  the  small 


Commands 


244 


$  lower  of  tbe  Busfe 


cart  which  contained  the  slumbering  Fido 
and  his  cushion.  He  did  not  even  hear  the 
pointed  comments  made  by  the  young  of  both 
sexes  whom  he  encountered  on  his  intermi 
nable  walk,  and  forgot  to  thank  the  postmas 
ter  for  the  loan  of  the  cart  when  he  returned 
it,  empty  save  for  a  fragment  of  cold  chicken 
and  a  faint,  doggy  smell. 

For  obvious  reasons,  he  could  not  go  to  the 
office  and  he  did  not  like  to  take  his  disturb 
ing  mood  to  Barbara.  Besides,  his  mother, 
who  now  had  long  wakeful  periods  in  the 
daytime,  might  see  him  and  ask  unpleasant 
questions.  He  went  down  to  the  beach,  yearn 
ing  for  solitude,  and  settled  himself  in  the 
shelter  of  a  sand  dune  to  meditate  upon  the 
unhappy  events  of  the  day. 

He  did  not  realise  that  the  sand  dune  be 
longed  to  Eloise,  and  that  she  was  wont  to  sit 
there  with  Doctor  Conrad,  out  of  the  wind,  and 
safely  screened  from  the  argus-eyed  rocking- 
chairs  on  the  veranda.  He  was  so  preoccupied 
that  he  did  not  even  hear  the  sound  of  their 
voices  as  they  approached.  Turning  the  cor 
ner  quickly,  they  almost  stumbled  over  him. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  cried  Eloise.  "  Sir  Knight 
of  the  Dolorous  Countenance,  what  has  gone 
wrong?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Roger,  miserably. 

"Anybody  dead?"  queried  Allan,  lazily 
stretching  himself  upon  the  sand. 


TTbe  passing  ot  jfffco  245 


"Not  yet,  but  somebody  is  dying." 

"Who?"  demanded  Eloise.  "Barbara,  or 
your  mother?  Who  is  it  ?" 

"Fido,"  said  Roger  hopelessly,  staring  out 
to  sea. 

Allan  laughed,  but  Eloise  returned,  kindly: 
"I  did  n't  know  you  had  a  dog.  I  'm sorry." 

"He  is  n't  mine,"  explained  Roger;  "I  only 
wish  he  were.  If  he  had  been,"  he  added, 
viciously,  "he'd  have  died  a  violent  death 
long  ago." 

Little  by  little,  the  whole  story  came  out. 
Allan  kept  his  face  straight  with  difficulty, 
but  Eloise  was  genuinely  distressed.  "Don't 
worry,"  she  said,  sympathetically.  "If  Fido 
dies  and  the  Judge  won't  take  you  back,  I  can 
probably  find  an  opening  for  you  in  town. 
Your  office  work  will  pay  your  expenses,  so 
you  can  go  to  law  school  in  the  evenings 
and  be  ready  for  your  examinations  in  the 
Spring." 

"Oh,  Miss  Wynne,"  cried  Roger.  "How 
good  you  are!  I  don't  wonder  Barbara  calls 
you  her  Fairy  Godmother." 

"Barbara  is  coming  to  town  to  spend  the 
Winter  with  me,"  Eloise  went  on,  happily. 
"  She  's  never  had  a  good  time  and  I  'm  going 
to  give  her  one.  As  soon  as  she  's  strong 
enough,  and  can  walk  well,  I  'm  going  to  take 
her,  bag  and  baggage.  It 's  all  I  'm  waiting 
here  for." 


246 


flower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


eypectel 
Call 


In  a  twinkling,  Roger's  despair  was  changed 
to  something  entirely  different.  "Oh,"  he 
cried,  "  I  do  hope  Fido  will  die.  Do  you  think 
there  is  any  chance?"  he  asked,  eagerly,  of 
Allan. 

"I  should  think,  from  what  you  tell  me," 
remarked  Allan,  judicially,  "that  Fido  was 
nearly  through  with  his  earthly  troubles.  A 
dose  of  that  size  might  easily  keep  any  of  us 
from  worrying  any  longer  about  the  price  of 
meat  and  next  month's  rent." 

"  Mother  won't  like  it,"  said  Roger,  soberly. 
"She  may  not  be  willing  for  me  to  go." 

"  She  should  be,"  returned  Allan,  "as  you  've 
saved  her  life  at  the  expense  of  Fido's.  When 
I  go  up  to  see  Barbara  this  afternoon,  I  '11  stop 
in  and  tell  her." 

Miss  Mattie  was  awake,  but  yawning,  when 
he  knocked  at  her  door.  "There  wasn't  no 
call  for  you  to  come,"  she  said,  inhospitably; 
"the  medicine  ain't  used  up  yet." 

"  Let  me  see  the  box,  please." 

She  shuffled  off  to  the  kitchen  cupboard  and 
brought  it  to  him.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
flour-filled  capsules  in  it.  Allan  observed 
that  the  druggist,  in  writing  the  directions  on 
the  cover,  had  failed  to  add  the  last  two  words. 

"Idiot,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "I 
wrote,  'Take  two  every  four  hours  until 
relieved/  " 

"  I   was  relieved,"  explained  Miss  Mattie, 


Ube  passing  of  ffifco  247 

"and  I  've  had  fine  sleep  ever  since.  It  's  wore 
off  considerable  in  the  last  three  days,  though/' 

Allan  then  told  her,  in  vivid  and  powerful 
language,  how  the  druggist's  error  might  have 
had  very  serious  results,  had  it  not  been  for 
Roger's  presence  of  mind  in  substituting  the 
flour-filled  capsules  for  the  "  searching  medi 
cine."  He  was  surprised  to  find  that  Miss 
Mattie  was  ungrateful,  and  that  she  violently 
resented  the  imposition. 

"Roger's  just  like  his  pa,"  she  said,  with 
the  dull  red  rising  in  her  cheeks.  "He  never 
had  no  notion  of  economy.  When  I  'm  takin' 
a  dollar  and  twenty  cents'  worth  of  medicine, 
to  keep  it  from  bein'  wasted,  Roger  goes  and 
puts  flour  into  the  covers  of  it,  and  feeds  the 
expensive  medicine  to  Judge  Bascom's  Fido. 
He  thinks  more  of  that  dog  than  he  does  of 
his  sick  mother." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Austin,"  said  Allan,  solemnly, 
"have  you  not  heard  the  news?" 

"What  news?"  she  demanded,  bristling. 

"  Little  Fido  is  dying.  He  took  all  the  medi 
cine  and  has  been  asleep  ever  since.  By  morn 
ing,  he  will  be  dead. 

Miss  Mattie's  jaw  dropped.  "Would  you 
mind  tellin'  me,"  she  asked,  suspiciously,  "why 
you  took  it  on  yourself  to  give  me  medicine 
that  would  pizen  a  dog  ?  I  might  have  took 
it  all  at  once,  to  save  it.  Once  I  was  minded 
to." 


248 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Ubc 

IDoctor 
laugbs 


"Roger  saved  your  life,"  said  Allan,  en 
deavouring  to  make  his  tone  serious.  "And 
because  of  it,  he  is  about  to  lose  his  position. 
The  Judge  is  so  disturbed  over  Fido's  ap 
proaching  dissolution  that  he  has  told  Roger 
never  to  come  back  any  more.  Unless  we  can 
find  him  a  place  in  town,  he  has  sacrificed  his 
whole  future  to  save  his  mother's  life." 

"Where  is  Roger?" 

"  I  left  him  down  on  the  beach,  with  Miss 
Wynne.  I  suppose  he  is  still  there." 

"When  you  see  him,"  commanded  Miss 
Mattie,  with  some  asperity,  "will  you  kindly 
send  him  home  ?  It 's  no  time  for  him  to 
be  gallivantin'  around  with  girls,  when  his 
mother's  been  so  near  death." 

"I  will,"  Allan  assured  her,  reaching  for  his 
hat.  "I  hope  you  appreciate  what  he  has 
done  for  you." 

When  he  went  down  the  road,  his  shoulders 
were  shaking  suspiciously.  Miss  Mattie  was 
watching  him  through  the  lace  curtains  that 
glorified  the  parlour  windows.  "Seems  as  if 
he  had  St.  Vitus's  dance,"she  mused.  "  Wonder 
why  he  does  n't  mix  up  some  dog-pizen,  and 
cure  himself?" 

When  he  was  sure  that  he  was  out  of  sight, 
Allan  sat  down  on  a  convenient  boulder  at  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
unrestrained  mirth.  The  medicine  which 
was  about  to  prove  fatal  to  Fido  would  have 


passing  of  ffifco  249 


caused  only  prolonged  sleep  if  taken  in  small       ifgt>ts 
doses,  at  proper  intervals,  by  an  adult.     "  It  's 
a  wonder  she  did  n't   take   'em  all  at  once," 
he  thought.     "And  if  she  had  —  "     He  specu 
lated,  idly,  upon  the  probable  effect. 

His  conscience  pricked  him  slightly  on  ac 
count  of  the  exaggeration  in  which  he  had 
mischievously  indulged,  but  he  told  himself 
that  Roger  would  be  far  better  off  in  the  city 
and  his  mother's  consent  would  make  his  going 
much  less  difficult.  He  also  realised  that  if 
Roger  were  there  to  amuse  Barbara,  Eloise 
might  have  more  spare  time  than  she  would 
otherwise. 

He  stopped  long  enough  to  give  the  druggist 
a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  went  back 
to  the  beach.  Eloise  and  Roger  were  where 
he  had  left  them,  and  the  boy's  gloom  was 
entirely  gone. 

"Your  mother  wants  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  Eloise. 

"All  right  —  I  '11  go  right  up.  How  did  she 
take  it?" 

"Very  well.  Just  remember  that  you've 
saved  her  life,  and  you  '11  have  no  trouble." 

When  Roger  went  up  the  street,  he  was 
whistling,  from  sheer  light-heartedness.  Eloise 
had  made  so  many  plans  for  his  future  that 
he  saw  fame  and  fortune  already  within  his 
reach. 

When    he    knocked,    never    having    been 


250 


jflower  of  tbe  Dusk 


Uwo 
(Brcettnga 


allowed  the  freedom  of  a  latch  key,  he  noted 
that  all  the  blinds  in  the  house  were  closed 
and  wondered  whether  his  mother  had  gone 
to  sleep  again.  After  a  suitable  interval,  she 
opened  the  door,  clad  in  her  best  black  silk, 
and  portentously  solemn. 

"Why,  Mother,  what 's  the  matter?" 

"Come  in,"  she  whispered.  "Doctor  Con 
rad  has  just  been  tellin'  me  how  near  I  come 
to  death.  Oh,  my  son,"  she  cried,  throwing 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  "you  have  saved 
my  life." 

It  seemed  to  Roger  like  a  paragraph  torn 
from  The  Metropolitan  Weekly,  but  he  patted 
her  back  soothingly  as  she  clung  to  him. 
Maternal  outbursts  of  this  sort  were  extremely 
rare.  He  remembered  only  one  other  greeting 
like  this — the  day  he  had  been  swimming  in 
the  river  with  three  other  small  boys  and  had 
been  brought  home  in  a  blanket,  half  drowned. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  n't  regret  takin'  dog- 
pizen,  if  it  cured  my  back  and  give  me  the 
sleep  I  needed,  but  it  was  a  dreadful  narrow 
escape.  And  your  takin'  the  medicine  away 
from  me  and  feedin'  it  to  Fido  was  certainly 
clever,  Roger.  Every  day  you  remind  me 
more  and  more  of  your  pa." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Roger.  He  was 
struggling  with  various  emotions  and  found 
speech  almost  impossible. 

"  It 's  no  more  'n  right,"  she  resumed,  "that, 


TTbe  passing  of  ffifco 


251 


after  having  pizened  Fido  and  lost  you  your 
place,  that  Doctor  Conrad  should  stir  himself 
around  and  get  you  a  better  place  in  the  city, 
but  I  do  hate  to  have  you  go,  Roger.  It  '11 
be  dreadful  lonesome  for  me." 

"Cheer  up,  Mother;  I  haven't  gone  yet. 
The  dog  may  get  well." 

Miss  Mattie  shook  her  head  sadly.  "No, 
he  wont,"  she  sighed.  "  I  took  enough  of  that 
medicine  to  know  how  powerful  it  is,  and  Fido 
ain't  got  no  chance.  To-morrow  I  '11  look 
over  your  things." 

An  atmosphere  of  solemnity  pervaded  the 
house,  and  the  evening  was  spent  very  quietly. 
Miss  Mattie  read  her  Bible,  as  on  Sunday 
evenings  when  she  did  not  go  to  church,  and 
sternly  refused  to  open  The  Housewife's  Com 
panion,  which  lay  temptingly  near  her. 

She  went  to  bed  early,  and  Roger  soon  fol 
lowed  her,  having  strangely  lost  his  desire  to 
read,  and  not  daring  to  go  to  see  Barbara 
more  than  once  a  day.  His  night  was  made 
hideous  by  visions  of  himself  drawing  the 
cart  containing  the  slumbering  Fido  into 
the  church  where  Eloise  and  Doctor  Conrad 
were  being  married,  while  Judge  Bascom 
at  the  house,  was  conducting  Miss  Mattie's 
funeral. 

In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  Roger  seri 
ously  debated  whether  or  not  he  should  go 
down  to  the  office.  At  last  he  tossed  up  a 


252 


fflower  of  tbe  SHtsfe 


B  Brief 

jfl&eeeacje 


coin  and  muttered  a  faint  imprecation  as  he 
picked  it  up. 

With  his  hat  firmly  on  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  Roger  fared  forth,  whistling  deter 
minedly.  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  office, 
and  he  dreaded,  exceedingly,  his  next  meeting 
with  the  irascible  Judge. 

As  it  happened,  it  was  not  necessary  for  him 
to  go,  for,  at  the  corner  of  the  street  which  led 
to  the  Judge's  house,  he  met  the  postmaster's 
small  son,  laboriously  dragging  the  fateful 
cart  of  yesterday.  In  it  were  all  of  Roger's 
books  and  other  belongings,  including  an  um 
brella  which  he  had  loaned  to  the  Judge  on  a 
rainy  night  and  expected  never  to  see  again. 

The  message  was  brief  and  very  much  to  the 
point.  Fido  had  died  painlessly  at  four  o'clock 
that  morning. 


253 


T 


XIX 

Dreams  Come  Grue 

HE  hours  Roger  had  taken  from  his  work 
in  the  office  had  brought  nothing  but      stcen<Jtb 


good  to  Barbara.  She  gained  strength  rapidly 
after  she  began  to  walk,  and  was  soon  able  to 
dispense  with  the  cane,  though  she  could  not 
walk  easily,  nor  far.  She  tired  quickly  and 
was  forced  to  rest  often,  but  she  went  about 
the  house  slowly  and  even  up  and  down  the 
stairs. 

Aunt  Miriam  made  no  comment  of  any  sort. 
She  did  not  say  she  was  glad  Barbara  was  well 
after  twenty-two  years  of  helplessness,  even 
though  she  had  taken  entire  care  of  her,  and 
must  have  felt  greatly  relieved  when  the  burden 
was  lifted.  She  went  about  her  work  as 
quietly  as  ever,  and  fulfilled  all  her  household 
duties  with  mechanical  precision. 

Spicy  odours  were  wafted  through  the  rooms, 
for  Eloise  had  ordered  enough  jelly,  sweet 
pickles,  and  preserves  to  supply  a  large  family 
for  two  or  three  years.  She  had  also  bought 


254 


fflower  of  tbe  Duel? 


One  SJarfc 
Clou& 


quilts  and  rag  rugs  for  all  of  her  old-lady  friends 
and  taken  the  entire  stock  of  candied  orange 
peel  for  the  afternoon  teas  which  she  expected 
to  give  during  the  Winter. 

Barbara  was  hard  at  work  upon  the  dainty 
lingerie  Eloise  had  planned,  and  found,  by  a 
curious  anomaly,  that  when  she  did  not  work 
so  hard,  she  was  able  to  accomplish  more.  The 
needle  flew  more  swiftly  when  her  fingers  did 
not  ache  and  the  stitches  blur  indistinguishably 
with  the  fibre  of  the  fabric.  When  Roger  was 
not  there  to  help  her,  she  divided  her  day,  by 
the  clock,  into  hours  of  work  and  quarter-hours 
of  exercise  and  rest. 

She  had  been  out  of  the  gate  twice,  with 
Roger,  and  had  walked  up  and  down  the  road 
in  front  of  the  house,  but,  as  yet,  she  had  not 
gone  beyond  the  little  garden  alone. 

Upon  the  fair  horizon  of  the  future  was  one 
dark  cloud  of  dread  which  even  Doctor  Con 
rad's  positive  assurance  had  mitigated  only 
for  a  little  time.  Barbara  knew  her  father 
and  his  stern,  uncompromising  righteousness. 
When  the  bandages  were  taken  off  and  he  saw 
the  faded  walls  and  dingy  furniture,  the  worn 
rugs,  and  the  pitiful  remnant  of  damask  at  his 
place  at  the  table;  when  he  realised  that  his 
daughter  had  deceived  him  ever  since  she 
could  talk  at  all,  he  must  inevitably  despise 
her,  even  though  he  tried  to  hide  it. 

Dimly,  Barbara  began  to  perceive  the  in- 


Ube  Dreams  Gome 


255 


tangible  price  that  is  attached  to  the  things 
of  the  spirit  as  well  as  to  the  material  neces 
sities  of  daily  life.  She  was  forced  to  surrender 
his  love  for  her  as  the  compensation  for  his 
sight,  yet  she  was  firmly  resolved  to  keep,  for 
him,  the  love  that  refused  to  reckon  with  the 
barrier  of  a  grave,  but  triumphantly  went 
past  it  to  clasp  the  dead  Beloved  closer  still. 

Of  late,  she  had  been  thinking  much  of  her 
mother.  Until  Roger  had  found  his  father's 
letter,  and  she  had  received  her  own,  upon  her 
twenty-second  birthday,  she  had  felt  no  sense 
of  loss.  Constance  had  been  a  vague  dream  to 
her  and  little  more,  in  spite  of  her  father's 
grieving  and  her  instinctive  sympathy. 

With  the  letters,  however,  had  come  a 
change.  Barbara  felt  a  certain  shadowy  re 
lationship  and  an  indefinite  bereavement.  She 
wondered  how  her  mother  had  looked,  what 
she  had  worn,  and  even  how  she  had  dressed 
her  hair.  Since  her  father  had  gone  to  the 
hospital,  she  had  wondered  more  than  ever, 
but  got  no  satisfaction  when  she  had  once 
asked  Aunt  Miriam. 

She  finished  the  garment  upon  which  she 
was  working,  threaded  the  narrow  white  ribbon 
into  it,  folded  it  in  tissue  paper  and  put  it  into 
the  chest.  It  was  the  last  of  the  second  set 
and  Eloise  had  ordered  six.  "Four  more  to 
do,"  thought  Barbara.  "I  wonder  whether 
she  wants  them  all  alike." 


H  Vague 
IDream 


256 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


fntbe 
Btttc 


The  afternoon  shadows  had  begun  to 
lengthen,  and  it  was  Saturday.  It  was  hardly 
worth  while  to  begin  a  new  piece  of  work 
before  Monday  morning,  especially  since  she 
wanted  to  ask  Eloise  about  a  new  pattern. 
Doctor  Conrad  was  coming  down  for  the  week 
end,  and  probably  both  of  them  would  be 
there  late  in  the  afternoon,  or  on  Sunday. 

"  How  glad  he  '11  be,"  said  Barbara,  to  her 
self.  "  He  '11  be  surprised  when  he  sees  how 
well  I  can  walk.  And  father — oh,  if  father 
could  only  come  too."  She  was  eager,  in  spite 
of  her  dread. 

Simply  for  the  sake  of  exercise,  Barbara 
climbed  the  attic  stairs  and  came  down  again. 
After  she  had  rested,  she  tried  it  once  more, 
but  was  so  faint  when  she  reached  the  top 
that  she  went  into  the  attic  and  sat  down  in 
an  old  broken  rocker.  It  was  the  only  place 
in  the  house  where  she  had  not  been  since 
she  could  walk,  and  she  rather  enjoyed  the 
novelty  of  it. 

A  decrepit  sofa,  with  the  springs  hanging 
from  under  it,  was  against  the  wall  at  one  side, 
far  back  under  the  eaves.  It  was  of  solid 
mahogany  and  had  not  been  bought  by  the 
searchers  for  antiques  because  its  rehabilitation 
would  be  so  expensive.  That  and  the  rocker 
in  which  Barbara  sat  were  the  only  pieces 
of  furniture  remaining. 

There   were   several    trunks,   old-fashioned 


Ube  Dreams  Come  ZTrue  257 


but  little  worn.  One  was  Aunt  Miriam's, 
one  was  her  father's,  and  the  others  must  have 
belonged  to  her  dead  mother.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Barbara  was  curious  about  the 
trunks. 

When  she  was  quite  rested,  she  went  over 
to  a  small  one  which  stood  near  the  window, 
and  opened  it.  A  faint,  musty  odour  greeted 
her,  but  there  was  no  disconcerting  flight  of 
moths.  Every  woollen  garment  in  the  house 
had  long  ago  been  used  by  Aunt  Miriam  for 
rugs  and  braided  mats.  She  had  taken  Con 
stance's  underwear  for  her  own  use  when  mis 
fortune  overtook  them,  and  there  was  little 
else  left. 

Barbara  lifted  from  the  trunk  a  gown  of 
heavy  white  brocade,  figured  with  violets  in 
lavender  and  palest  green.  It  was  yellow  and 
faded  and  the  silver  thread  that  ran  through 
the  pattern  was  tarnished  so  that  it  was  almost 
black.  The  skirt  had  a  long  train  and  around 
the  low-cut  bodice  was  a  deep  fall  of  heavy 
Duchess  lace,  yellowed  to  the  exquisite  tint  of 
old  ivory.  The  short  sleeves  were  trimmed  with 
lace  of  the  same  pattern,  but  only  half  as  wide. 

"Oh,"  said  Barbara,  aloud,  "how  lovely!" 

There  was  a  petticoat  of  rustling  silk,  and  a 
pair  of  dainty  white  slippers,  yellowed,  too,  by 
the  slow  passage  of  the  years.  Their  silver 
buckles  were  tarnished,  but  their  high  heels 
were  as  coquettish  as  ever. 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Bush 


"What  a  little  foot,"  thought  Barbara.  "I 
believe  it  was  smaller  than  mine." 

She  took  off  her  low  shoe,  and,  like  Cinder 
ella,  tried  on  the  slipper.  She  was  much  sur 
prised  to  find  that  it  fitted,  though  the  high 
heels  felt  queer.  Her  own  shoe  was  more  com 
fortable,  and  so  she  changed  again,  though 
she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to  wear  the 
slippers  sometime. 

In  the  trunk,  too,  she  found  a  white  bonnet 
that  she  tried  on,  but  without  satisfaction, 
as  there  was  no  mirror  in  the  attic.  This  one 
trunk  evidently  contained  the  finery  for  which 
Miriam  had  not  been  able  to  find  use. 

One  by  one,  Barbara  took  out  the  garments, 
which  were  all  of  silk  or  linen  —  there  was 
nothing  there  for  the  moths.  The  long  bridal 
veil  of  rose  point,  that  Barbara  had  sternly 
refused  to  sell,  was  yellow,  too,  but  none  the 
less  lovely.  There  was  a  gold  scent-bottle  set 
with  discoloured  pearls,  an  amethyst  brooch 
which  no  one  would  buy  because  it  had  three 
small  gold  tassels  hanging  from  it,  and  a  lace 
fan  with  tortoise-shell  sticks,  inlaid  with 
mother-of-pearl.  A  thrifty  woman  at  the 
hotel  had  once  offered  two  dollars  for  the  fan, 
but  Barbara  had  kept  it,  as  she  was  sure  it 
was  worth  more. 

Down  in  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  was  an 
inlaid  box  that  she  did  not  remember  having 
seen  before.  She  slid  back  the  cover  and 


IT  be  Breams  Gome  Urue 


259 


found  a  lace  handkerchief,  a  broken  cuff-but  ton, 
a  gold  locket  enamelled  with  black,  a  long  fan- 
chain  of  gold,  set  with  amethysts,  a  small  gold- 
framed  mirror  evidently  meant  to  be  carried 
in  a  purse  or  hand-bag,  a  high  shell  comb  inlaid 
with  gold  and  set  with  amethysts,  and  ten 
of  the  dozen  large,  heavy  gold  hairpins  which 
Ambrose  North,  in  an  extravagant  mood,  had 
ordered  made  for  the  shining  golden  braids  of 
his  girl-wife. 

On  the  bottom  of  the  box,  face  down,  was  a 
photograph.  Barbara  took  it  out,  wonder- 
ingly,  and  started  in  amazement  as  her  own 
face  looked  back  at  her.  On  the  back  was 
written,  in  the  same  clear  hand  as  the  letter: 
"  For  my  son,  or  daughter.  Constance  North." 
Below  was  the  date — just  a  month  before 
Barbara  was  born. 

The  heavy  hair,  in  the  picture,  was  braided 
and  wound  around  the  shapely  head.  The 
high  comb,  the  same  that  Barbara  had  just 
taken  out  of  the  box,  added  a  finishing  touch. 
Around  the  slender  neck  and  fair,  smooth 
shoulders  fell  the  Duchess  lace  that  trimmed 
the  brocade  gown.  The  amethyst  brooch, 
with  two  of  the  three  tassels  plainly  show 
ing,  was  pinned  into  the  lace  on  the  left  side, 
half-way  to  the  shoulder. 

But  it  was  the  face  that  interested  Barbara 
most,  as  it  was  the  counterpart  of  her  own. 
There  was  the  same  broad,  low  forehead,  the 


'  B  pboto* 
graph 


260 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Busfe 


B  Sweet 
fact 


large,  deep  eyes  with  long  lashes,  the  straight 
little  nose,  and  the  tender,  girlish  mouth  with 
its  short  upper  lip,  and  the  same  firm,  round, 
dimpled  chin.  Even  the  expression  was  almost 
the  same,  but  in  Constance's  deep  eyes  was  a 
certain  wistfulness  that  the  faint  smile  of  her 
mouth  could  not  wholly  deny. 

The  woman  who  looked  back  at  her  daughter 
seemed  strangely  youthful.  Barbara  felt,  in 
a  way,  as  though  she  were  the  mother  and 
Constance  the  child,  for  she  was  older,  now, 
than  her  mother  had  been  when  she  died. 
The  years  of  helplessness  and  struggle  had 
aged  Barbara,  too. 

The  slanting  sunbeams  of  late  afternoon 
came  into  the  attic,  but  Barbara  still  studied 
the  sweet  face  of  the  picture.  Constance  was 
made  for  love,  and  love  had  come  when  it  was 
too  late.  What  tenderness  she  was  capable 
of;  what  toilsome  journeys  she  would  under 
take  without  fear,  if  her  heart  bade  her  go! 
And  what  courage  must  have  nerved  her 
dimpled  hands  when  she  opened  the  grey,  mys 
terious  door  of  the  Unknown!  There  was 
no  hint  of  weakness  in  the  face,  but  Constance 
had  died  rather  than  to  take  the  chance  of 
betraying  the  man  who  held  her  pledge. 
Barbara's  young  soul  answered  in  passionate 
loyalty  to  the  wistfulness,  the  hunger,  and  the 
unspoken  appeal. 

"He  shall  never  know,  Mother,  dear,"  she 


TTbe  SJreams  Come  tlrue  261 

said  aloud.  "I  promise  you  that  he  shall 
never  know." 

The  shadows  grew  longer,  and,  at  length, 
Barbara  put  the  picture  down.  If  she  had 
on  the  gown,  and  twisted  her  braids  around 
her  head,  she  would  look  like  her  mother  even 
more  than  now.  She  had  a  fancy  to  try  it — 
to  go  downstairs  and  see  what  Aunt  Miriam 
would  say  when  she  came  in.  Her  eyes 
sparkled  with  delight  when  she  drew  on  the 
long  white  stockings  of  finest  silk  and  put  on 
the  white  slippers  with  the  tarnished  silver 
buckle^. 

The  gown  was  too  long  and  a  little  too  loose, 
but  Barbara  rejoiced  in  the  faded  brocade  and 
in  the  rustle  of  the  silk  petticoat  that  cracked 
in  several  places  when  she  put  it  on,  the  fabric 
was  so  frail.  The  ivory-tinted  lace  set  off 
her  shoulders  beautifully,  but  she  could  only 
guess  at  the  effect  from  the  brief  glimpses  the 
tiny  mirror  gave  her.  She  put  on  the  amethyst 
brooch,  hung  the  fan  upon  its  chain  and  put  it 
around  her  neck.  Then  she  wound  her  braids 
around  her  head  and  fastened  them  securely 
with  the  gold  hairpins.  With  the  aid  of  the 
small  gold  mirror,  she  put  the  comb  in  place, 
and  loosened  the  soft  hair  on  either  side,  so  that 
it  covered  the  tops  of  her  ears. 

She  walked  back  and  forth  a  few  times,  the 
full  length  of  the  attic,  looking  back  to  admire 
the  sweep  of  her  train.  Then  she  sat  down 


262 


flower  of  tbe  Busfe 


Coming 


upon  the  decrepit  sofa,  trying  to  fancy  herself 
a  stately  lady  of  long  ago.  The  room  was 
very  still,  and,  without  knowing  it,  Barbara 
had  wearied  herself  with  her  unaccustomed 
exertion.  Her  white  woollen  gown  and  soft 
low  shoes  lay  in  a  little  heap  on  the  floor  near 
the  window.  She  must  not  forget  to  take  them 
when  she  went  down  to  look  in  the  mirror. 

Presently,  she  stretched  herself  out  upon 
the  sofa,  wondering,  drowsily,  whether  her 
mother  would  have  lain  down  to  rest  in  that 
splendid  brocade.  She  did  not  intend  to  sleep, 
but  only  to  rest  a  little  before  going  down 
stairs  to  surprise  Aunt  Miriam.  Nevertheless, 
in  a  few  minutes  she  was  fast  asleep  and 
dreaming. 

Eloise  went  down  to  the  three  o'clock  train 
to  meet  Allan,  and  was  much  surprised  when 
Ambrose  North  came,  too.  His  eyes  were 
bandaged,  but  otherwise  he  seemed  as  well  as 
ever.  They  offered  to  go  home  with  him,  but 
he  refused,  saying  that  he  could  go  alone  as 
well  as  he  ever  had. 

They  strolled  after  him,  however,  keeping 
at  a  respectful  distance,  until  they  saw  him 
enter  the  grey,  weather-worn  gate;  then  they 
turned  back. 

"Is  he  all  right,  Allan?"  asked  Eloise, 
anxiously. 

"  I  hope  so — indeed,  I  'm  very  sure  he  is. 


ZTbe  Dreams  Come  Urue 


263 


The  operation  turned  out  to  be  an  extremely 
simple  one,  though  it  was  n't  even  dreamed  of 
twenty  years  ago.  Barbara's  case  was  simple 
too, — it 's  all  in  the  knowing  how.  She  has 
made  one  of  the  quickest  recoveries  on  record, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  her  body  is  almost  that 
of  a  child.  When  you  come  down  to  the  root 
of  the  matter,  surgery  is  merely  the  job  of  a 
skilled  mechanic." 

"  But  you  'd  be  angry  if  anyone  else  said 
that." 

"Of  course." 

"When  do  the  bandages  come  off?" 

"  I  'm  going  up  to-morrow.  They  'd  have 
been  off  over  a  week  ago,  but  Barbara  insisted 
that  she  must  see  him  first  and  ask  him  to  for 
give  her  for  deceiving  him.  She  thinks  she  's 
a  criminal." 

"  Dear  little  saint,"  said  Eloise,  softly.  "  I 
wish  none  of  us  ever  did  anything  more  wicked 
than  that." 

"So  do  I,  but  there  is  an  active  remnant  of 
a  New-England  conscience  somewhere  in  Bar 
bara.  I  'm  not  sure  that  the  old  man  has  n't 
it,  too." 

"Do  you  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  he 
won't  forgive  her?" 

"  If  he  does  n't,"  returned  Allan,  concisely, 
"  I  '11  break  his  ungrateful  old  neck.  I  hope 
she  won't  stir  him  up  very  much,  though — 
he  's  got  a  bad  heart." 


El  Case  of 
Conscience 


264 


fflower  of  tbe  2>usfc 


flMdam'0 
Welcome 


Still,  the  old  man  showed  no  sign  of  weak 
ness  as  he  went  briskly  up  the  walk  and  knocked 
at  his  own  door.  When  Miriam  opened  it, 
astonishment  made  her  welcome  almost  in 
articulate,  for  she  had  not  expected  him  home 
so  soon.  He  gave  her  the  small  black  satchel 
that  he  carried,  his  coat  and  hat. 

"How  is  Barbara?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 
"How  is  my  little  girl  ?" 

"Well  enough,"  answered  Miriam. 

"Is  she  asleep?" 

Miriam  went  to  the  stairs  and  called  out: 
"Barbara!  Oh,  Barbara!"  There  was  no 
answer. 

She  started  upstairs,  but  he  called  her  back. 
"Don't  wake  her,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  I  can 
take  her  supper  up  to  her." 

"Suit  yourself,"  responded  Miriam,  shortly. 

She  did  not  see  fit  to  tell  him  that  Barbara 
was  up  and  could  walk.  Doctor  Conrad  could 
have  told  him,  if  he  had  wanted  to — at  any 
rate,  it  was  not  Miriam's  affair.  She  bitterly 
resented  the  fact  that  he  had  not  even  shaken 
hands  with  her  when  he  came  home,  after  his 
long  absence.  She  hung  up  his  coat  and 
hat,  lighted  the  fire,  as  the  room  was  cool,  went 
out  into  the  kitchen,  and  closed  the  door. 

The  familiar  atmosphere  and  the  comfortable 
chair  in  which  he  sat  brought  him  that  pe 
culiar  peace  of  home  which  is  one  of  the 
greatest  gifts  travel  can  bestow.  Even  the 


ZTbe  H)reams  Come  ZTrue 


265 


ticking  of  the  clock  came  to  his  senses  grate 
fully.  Home  at  last,  after  all  the  pain,  the 
dreary  nights  and  days  of  acute  loneliness, 
and  only  one  more  day  to  wait — perhaps. 

"To  see  again,"  he  thought.  "I  am  glad 
I  came  home  first.  To-morrow,  if  God  is 
good  to  me,  I  shall  see  my  baby— and  the 
letter.  I  have  dreamed  so  often  that  she 
could  walk  and  I  could  see! " 

He  took  the  two  sheets  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  spread  them  out  upon  his  knee. 
He  moved  his  hands  lovingly  across  the  pages 
— the  one  written  upon,  the  other  blank. 
"She  died  loving  me,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"To-morrow  I  shall  see  it,  in  her  own  hand." 

Sunset  flamed  behind  the  hills  and  brought 
into  the  little  room  faint  threads  of  gold  and 
amethyst  that  wove  a  luminous  tapestry  with 
the  dusk.  The  clock  ticked  steadily,  and 
with  every  cheery  tick  brought  nearer  that 
dear  To-Morrow  of  which  he  had  dreamed  so 
long.  He  speculated  upon  the  difference 
made  by  the  slow  passage  of  a  few  hours. 
To-morrow,  at  this  time,  his  bandages  would 
be  off — then  why  not  to-day?" 

The  letter  fell  to  the  floor  and  he  picked  it 
up,  one  sheet  at  a  time,  fretfully.  The  bandage 
around  his  temples  and  the  gauze  and  cotton 
held  firmly  against  his  eyes  all  at  once  grew 
intolerable.  It  was  the  last  few  miles  to  the 
weary  traveller,  the  last  hour  that  lay  between 


Hot 


266 


jfiower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


130  Open? 
bis 


the  lover  and  his  beloved,  the  darkness  before 
the  dawn.  He  had  been  very  patient,  but  at 
last  had  come  to  the  end. 

If  only  the  bandages  were  off!  "If  they 
were,"  he  thought,  "  I  need  not  open  my  eyes — 
I  could  keep  them  closed  until  to-morrow." 
He  raised  his  hands  and  worked  carefully  at 
the  surgical  knots  until  the  outer  strip  was 
loosened.  He  wound  it  slowly  off,  then  cau 
tiously  removed  the  layers  of  cotton  and  gauze. 

He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  closed,  determined 
to  keep  faith  with  the  physicians,  and,  above 
all,  with  Doctor  Conrad,  who  had  been  so  very 
kind.  There  was  no  pain  at  all — only  weak 
ness.  If  the  room  were  absolutely  dark,  per 
haps  he  might  open  his  eyes  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Why  should  to-morrow  be  so  different 
from  to-day? 

The  letter  was  in  his  hands — that  dear  letter 
which  said,  "  I  have  loved  him,  I  love  him  still, 
and  have  never  loved  him  more  than  I  do 
to-day."  The  temptation  worked  subtly  in 
his  mind  as  strong  wine  might  in  his  blood. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  he  could  not  see — the 
doctors  had  not  given  him  a  positive  promise. 

The  fear  made  him  faint,  then  surging  hope 
and  infinite  longing  merged  into  perfect  belief 
— and  trust.  Unable  to  endure  the  strain  of 
waiting  longer,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  as 
swiftly  closed  them  again. 


Ube  Breams  Come  ZTrue 


267 


"I  can  see,"  he  whispered,  shrilly.  "Oh,  I 
can  see ! " 

The  blood  beat  hard  in  his  pulses.  He 
waited,  wisely,  until  he  was  calm,  then  opened 
his  eyes  once  more.  The  room  was  not  dark, 
but  was  filled  with  the  soft,  golden  glow  of 
sunset — a  light  that  illumined  and,  strangely, 
brought  no  pain.  Objects  long  unfamiliar 
save  by  touch  loomed  large  and  dark  before 
him.  Remembered  colours  came  back,  mel 
lowed  by  the  half-light.  Distances  readjusted 
themselves  and  perspectives  appeared  in  the 
transparent  mist  that  seemed  to  veil  everything. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  said,  aloud:  "I  can 
see!  Oh,  I  can  see!" 

Little  by  little  the  mist  disappeared  and 
objects  became  clear.  The  velvety  softness  of 
the  last  light  lay  kindly  upon  the  dingy  room. 
When  he  tried  to  read  the  letter  the  words 
danced  on  the  page.  Trembling,  he  rose  and 
took  it  over  to  the  window,  where  the  light 
was  stronger.  As  he  stood  there,  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  Miriam,  unheard,  came  into  the 
room. 

The  bandages  on  the  floor,  the  eagerness  in 
every  line  of  his  body  as  he  stood  at  the  window, 
and  the  letter  in  his  hand,  gave  her,  in  a  single 
instant,  all  the  information  she  needed.  Her 
heart  beat  high  with  wild  hope — the  hour  of 
her  vengeance  had  come  at  last. 

She  feared  he  would  not  be  able  to  read  it. 


268 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Dusfc 


•RaMance 
Of  Soul 


Then  she  remembered  the  yellowed  page  on 
which  the  writing  stood  out  as  clearly  as 
though  it  had  been  large  print.  If  he  could 
see  at  all,  he  could  see  that. 

Little  by  little,  sustained  and  supported  by 
his  immeasurable  longing,  the  man  at  the 
window  spelled  out  the  words,  in  an  eager 
whisper: 

"You  who  have  loved  me  since  the  begin 
ning  of  time — will  understand  and  forgive 
me — for  what  I  do  to-day.  I  do  it  because 
I  am  not  strong  enough — to  go  on — and  do  my 
duty — by  those  who  need  me." 

Miriam  nodded  with  satisfaction.  At  last 
he  knew  why  Constance  had  taken  her  own 
life. 

"If  there  should  be — meeting — past  the 
grave — some  day  you  and  I — shall  come  to 
gether  again — with  no  barrier  between  us." 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  as  though  he 
did  not  quite  understand,  but  hurried  on  to 
the  next  sentence,  for  his  eyes  were  failing 
under  the  strain. 

"  I  take  with  me — the  knowledge  of  your 
love — which  has  strengthened — and  sustained 
me — since  the  day — we  first  met — and  must 
make — even  a  grave — warm  and  sweet." 

The  light  in  the  room  seemed  to  Miriam  to 
be  not  wholly  of  the  golden  sunset.  Some 
radiance  of  soul  must  have  made  that  clear 
soft  light  which  veiled  but  did  not  hide.  It 


ZTbe  Breams  Come  Zlrue 


269 


was  sunset,  and  yet  the  light  was  that  of  a 
Summer  afternoon. 

"And  remember  this — dead  though  I  am — 
I  love  you  still — you — and  my  little  lame  baby 
— who  needs  me  so — and  whom — I  must  leave 
— because  I  am  not  strong — enough  to  stay. 
Through  life — and  in  death — and  eternally 
yours — Constance." 

There  was  a  tense,  unbearable  silence.  Mir 
iam  moistened  her  parched  lips  and  chafed  her 
cold  hands.  "At  last,"  she  thought.  "At 
last." 

"  She  died  loving  me,"  said  Ambrose  North, 
in  a  shrill  whisper.  His  eyes  were  closed  again, 
for  the  strain  had  hurt — terribly.  Dimly,  he 
remembered  the  other  letter.  This  was  not 
the  same,  but  the  other  had  been  to  Barbara, 
and  not  to  him.  He  did  not  stop  to  wonder 
how  it  came  to  be  in  his  pocket.  It  sufficed 
that  some  Angel  of  God,  working  through 
devious  ways  and  long  years,  had  given  him 
at  last,  face  to  face,  the  assurance  he  had 
hungered  for  since  the  day  Constance  died. 

In  a  blinding  instant,  Miriam  remembered 
that  no  names  had  been  mentioned  in  the  letter. 
He  had  made  a  mistake — but  she  could  set 
him  right.  Constance  should  not  triumph 
again,  even  in  an  hour  like  this. 

Ambrose  North  turned  back  into  the  shadow, 
fearing  to  face  the  window.  The  woman 
cowering  in  the  corner  advanced  steadily  to 


Ubc 
Assurance 


270 


jf  lower  of  tbe  SHisfe 


meet  him.  He  saw  her,  vaguely,  when  his 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  change  of 
lights. 

"Miriam!"  he  cried,  transfigured  by  joy. 
"She  died  loving  me!  I  have  it  here.  It  was 
only  because  she  was  not  strong  —  she  was  ill, 
and  she  never  let  us  know."  He  held  forth 
the  letter  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"She  —  "  began  Miriam. 

"She  died  loving  me!"  he  cried.  "Oh, 
Miriam,  can  you  not  see  ?  I  have  it  here."  His 
voice  rang  through  the  house  like  some  far 
silver  bugle  chanting  triumph  over  a  field  of 
the  slain.  "She  died  loving  me!" 

Barbara  had  already  wakened  and  she  sat 
up,  rubbing  her  eyes.  The  attic  was  almost 
dark.  She  went  downstairs  hurriedly,  for 
getting  her  borrowed  finery  until  her  long 
train  caught  on  a  projecting  splinter  and  had 
to  be  loosened.  When  she  reached  her  own  door 
she  started  toward  her  mirror,  anxious  to  see 
how  she  looked,  but  that  triumphant  cry 
from  the  room  below  made  her  heart  stand 
still. 

White  as  death  and  strangely  fearful,  she 
went  down  and  into  the  living-room,  where 
the  last  light  deepened  the  shadows  and  lay 
lovingly  upon  her  father's  illumined  face. 

Barbara  smiled  and  went  toward  him,  with 
her  hands  outstretched  in  welcome.  Miriam 


TTbe  Dreams  Come  Urue 


271 


shrank  back  into  the  farthest  shadows,  shaking 
as  though  she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

There  was  an  instant's  tense  silence.  All 
the  forces  of  life  and  love  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  concentrated  into  the  space  of  a  single 
heart-beat.  Then  the  old  man  spoke. 

"Constance,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "have 
you  come  back,  Beloved  ?  It  has  been  so  long !" 

Radiant  with  beauty  no  woman  had  ever 
worn  before,  Barbara  went  to  him,  still  smiling, 
and  the  old  man's  arms  closed  hungrily  about 
her.  "  I  dreamed  you  were  dead,"  he  sobbed, 
"but  I  knew  you  died  loving  me.  Where  is 
our  baby,  Constance?  Where  is  my  Flower 
of  the  Dusk?" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  overburdened  heart 
failed  beneath  its  burden  of  joy.  He  staggered 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  Miriam  caught 
him  in  her  strong  arms.  Together,  they  helped 
him  to  the  couch,  where  he  lay  down,  breathing 
with  great  difficulty. 

"Constance,  darling,"  he  gasped,  feebly, 
"where  is  our  baby?  I  want  Barbara." 

For  the  sake  of  the  dead  and  the  living,  Bar 
bara  supremely  put  self  aside.  "  I  do  not 
know,"  she  whispered,  "just  where  Barbara 
is.  Am  I  not  enough  ?" 

"  Enough  for  earth,"  he  breathed  in  answer, 
"  and — for — heaven — too.  Kiss  me — Con 
stance — just  once — dear — before " 

Barbara  bent  down.     He  lifted  his  shaking 


272  ff  lower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


hands  caressingly  to  the  splendid  crown  of 
golden  hair,  the  smooth,  fair  checks,  the  perfect 
neck  and  shoulders,  and  died,  enraptured,  with 
her  kiss  upon  his  lips. 


273 


XX 

pardon 

CRUSHED    and    almost    broken-hearted, 

v_>     Barbara  sat  in  the  dining-room.     The      service 

air  was  heavy  with  the  overpowering  scent  of 

tuberoses.     From  the  room  beyond  came  the 

solemn  words  of  the  burial  service:  "I  am  the 

resurrection  and  the  life.     He  that  believeth 

on  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live." 

The  words  beat  unbearably  upon  her  ears. 
The  walls  of  the  room  moved  as  though  they 
were  of  fabric,  stirred  by  winds  of  hell.  The 
floor  undulated  beneath  her  feet  and  black 
mists  blinded  her.  Her  hands  were  so  cold 
that  she  scarcely  felt  the  friendly,  human 
touch  on  either  side  of  her  chair. 

Roger  held  one  of  her  cold  little  hands  in 
both  his  own,  yearning  to  share  her  grief,  to 
divide  it  in  some  way;  even  to  bear  it  for  her. 
On  the  other  side  was  Doctor  Conrad,  pro 
foundly  moved.  His  science  had  not  yet 
obliterated  his  human  instincts  and  he  was 
neither  ashamed  of  the  mist  in  his  eyes  nor 
of  the  painful  throbbing  of  his  heart.  His 


-74 


jf  lower  of  tbe 


fingers  were  upon  Barbara's  pulse,  where  the 
Hfetide  moved  so  slowly  that  he  could  barely 
feel  it. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room,  alien  and 
apart,  as  always,  sat  Miriam.  She  wore  her 
best  black  gown,  but  her  face  was  inscrutable. 
Perhaps  the  lines  were  more  sharply  cut,  per 
haps  the  rough,  red  hands  moved  more  ner 
vously  than  usual,  and  perhaps  the  deep-set 
black  eyes  burned  more  fiercely,  but  no  one 
noticed  or  cared. 

The  deep  voice  in  the  room  beyond  was 
vibrant  with  tenderness.  The  man  who  stood 
near  Ambrose  North  as  he  lay  in  his  last  sleep 
had  been  summoned  from  town  by  Eloise. 
He  did  not  make  the  occasion  an  excuse  for 
presenting  his  own  particular  doctrine,  bol 
stered  up  by  argument,  nor  did  he  bid  his 
hearers  rejoice  and  be  glad.  He  admitted, 
at  the  beginning,  that  sorrow  lay  heavily  upon 
the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  Ambrose  North 
and  did  not  say  that  God  was  chastening  them 
for  their  own  good. 

He  spoke  of  Life  as  the  rainbow  that  bril 
liantly  spans  two  mysterious  silences,  one  of 
which  is  dawn  and  the  other  sunset.  '1  'his 
flaming  arc  must  end.  as  it  begins,  in  pain,  but, 
past  the  silence,  and,  perhaps,  in  even  greater 
mystery,  the  circle  must  somewhere  become 
complete  and  round  back  to  a  new  birth. 

Could  not  the  God  who  ordained  the  begin- 


pardon 


ning  be  safely  trusted  with  the  end?  For 
getting  the  grey  mists  of  dawn  in  which  the 
rainbow  began,  should  we  deny  the  inevitable 
night  when  the  arc  bends  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world?  Having  seen  so  much  of 
the  perfect  curve,  could  we  not  believe  in  the 
circle?  And  should  we  not  remember  that 
the  rainbow  itself  was  a  signal  and  a  promise 
that  there  should  be  no  more  sea?  Fven  so, 
was  not  this  mortal  life  of  ours,  tempered  as 
it  is  by  sorrow  and  tears,  a  further  promise  t  ha  t , 
when  the  circle  was  completed,  there  should 
be  no  more  death? 

The  deep  voice  went  on,  even  more  tenderly, 
to  speak  of  God;  not  of  His  power,  but  of  His 
purpose,  not  of  His  justice,  but  His  forgiveness, 
not  of  His  venegeance,  but  of  His  love.  A 
love  so  vast  and  far-reaching  that  there  is  no 
place  where  it  is  not;  it  enfolds  not  only  our 
little  world,  poised  in  infinite  space  like  a  mote 
in  a  sunbeam,  but  all  the  shining,  rolling  worlds 
beyond.  Every  star  that  rises  within  our  sight 
and  all  the  million  stars  beyond,  in  misty  dis 
tances  so  great  as  to  be  incomprehensible, 
are  guided  and  surrounded  by  this  same  love. 
It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  place  where 
it  is  not — even  in  the  midst  of  pain,  poverty, 
sufTering,  and  death,  God's  love  is  there  also. 
The  minister  pleaded  with  those  who  listened 
to  him  to  lean  wholly  upon  this  all-sustaining, 
all-forgiving  love;  to  believe  that  it  sheltered 


tOVf 


276 


ffiower  of  tbe  Dusk 


Httbe 

Close  of 

tbe 
Service 


both  the  living  and  the  dead,  and  to  trust, 
simply,  as  a  little  child. 

In  the  stillness  that  followed,  Eloise  went 
to  the  piano.  The  worn  strings  answered 
softly  as  her  fingers  touched  the  keys.  In  her 
full,  low  contralto  she  sang,  to  an  exquisite 
melody: 

11  When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree  ; 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet  ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

"  I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget." 

The  deep,  manly  voice  followed  with  a 
benediction,  then  the  little  group  of  neighbours 
and  friends  went  out  with  hushed  and  reverent 
step,  into  the  golden  Autumn  afternoon. 
Miriam  came  in,  to  all  outward  appearance 
wholly  unmoved.  She  stood  by  him  for  a 
moment,  then  turned  away. 

Eloise  closed  the  door  and  Roger  and  Allan 
brought  Barbara  in.  She  bent  down  to  her 


parfcon  277 


father,  who  lay  so  quietly,  with  a  smile  of 
heavenly  peace  upon  his  lips,  and  her  tears        offt 
rained  upon  his  face.  "  Good-bye,  dear  Daddy," 
she  sobbed.     "It  is  Barbara  who  kisses  you 
now." 

When  Ambrose  North  went  out  of  his  door 
for  the  last  time,  on  his  way  to  rest  beside  his 
beloved  Constance  until  God  should  summon 
them  both,  Roger  stayed  behind,  with  Barbara. 
Doctor  Conrad  had  said,  positively,  that  she 
must  not  go,  and,  as  always,  she  obeyed. 

The  boy's  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  He 
still  kept  her  cold  little  hand  in  his.  "There 
is  n't  anything  I  can  say  or  do,  is  there,  Bar 
bara,  dear?" 

"No,"  she  sobbed.  "That  is  the  pity  of 
it.  There  is  never  anything  to  be  said  or 
done." 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  it  from  you  and  bear 
it  for  you,"  he  said,  simply.  "Some  way,  we 
seem  to  belong  together,  you  and  I." 

They  sat  in  silence  until  the  others  came 
back.  Eloise  came  straight  to  Barbara  and 
put  her  strong  young  arms  around  the  frail, 
bent  little  figure. 

"Will  you  come  with  me, dear?"  she  asked. 
"We  can  get  a  carriage  easily  and  I  'd  love  to 
have  you  with  me.  Will  you  come?" 

For  a  moment,  Barbara  hesitated.  "No," 
she  said,  "  I  must  stay  here.  I  've  got  to  live 


278 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


3B«  tbc 
Open  fire 


right  on  here,  and  I  might  as  well  begin 
to-night." 

Allan  took  from  his  pocket  several  small, 
round  white  tablets,  and  gave  them  to  Barbara. 
"  Two  just  before  going  to  bed/'  he  said.  "  And 
if  you  're  the  same  brave  girl  that  you  've  been 
ever  since  I  Ve  known  you,  you  '11  have  your 
bearings  again  in  a  short  time." 

Roger  stayed  to  supper,  but  none  of  them 
made  more  than  a  pretence  of  eating.  The 
odour  of  tuberoses  still  pervaded  the  house 
and  brought,  inevitably,  the  thought  of  death. 
Afterward,  Barbara  sat  by  the  open  fire  with 
one  hand  lying  listlessly  in  Roger's  warm, 
understanding  clasp.  In  the  kitchen,  Miriam 
vigorously  washed  the  few  dishes.  She  had 
put  away  the  fine  china,  the  solid  silver  knife 
and  fork,  the  remnant  of  table  damask,  and  the 
Satsuma  cup. 

"Shall  I  read  to  you,  Barbara?"  asked 
Roger. 

"No,"  she  answered,  wearily.  "  I  could  n't 
listen  to-night." 

The  hours  dragged  on.  Miriam  sat  in  the 
dining-room  alone,  by  the  light  of  one  candle, 
remorsefully,  after  many  years,  face  to  face 
with  herself. 

She  wondered  what  Constance  would  do  to 
her  now,  when  she  went  to  bed  and  fearfully 
closed  her  eyes.  She  determined  to  cheat 
Constance  by  sitting  up  all  night,  and  then 


patron  279 


realised  that  by  doing  so  she  would  only  post 
pone  the  inevitable  reckoning. 

Miriam  felt  that  a  reckoning  was  due  some 
where,  on  earth,  or  in  heaven,  or  in  hell. 
Mysterious  balances  must  be  made  before 
things  were  right,  and  her  endeavours  to  get 
what  she  had  conceived  to  be  her  own  just 
due  had  all  failed. 

She  wondered  why.  Constance  had  wronged 
her  and  she  was  entitled  to  pay  Constance 
back  in  her  own  coin.  But  the  opportunity 
had  been  taken  out  of  her  hands,  every  time. 
Even  at  the  last,  her  subtle  revenge  had  been 
transmuted  into  further  glory  for  Constance. 
Why? 

The  answer  flashed  upon  her  like  words  of 
fire — "  Vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay." 

Then,  suddenly,  from  some  unknown  source, 
the  need  of  confession  came  pitilessly  upon 
her  soul.  Her  lined  face  blanched  in  the 
candle-light  and  her  worn,  nervous  hands 
clutched  fearfully  at  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Confess,"  she  repeated  to  herself  scornfully 
as  though  in  answer  to  some  imperative  sum 
mons.  "To  whom  ?" 

There  was  no  answer,  but,  in  her  heart, 
Miriam  knew.  Only  one  of  the  blood  was  left 
and  to  that  one,  if  possible,  payment  must  be 
made.  And  if  anything  was  due  her,  either 
from  the  dead  or  the  living,  it  must  come  to 
her  through  Barbara. 


280 


ffiower  of  tbe  S>usfe 


lHMrtam'0 
Confes0ion 


Miriam  laughed  shrilly  and  then  bit  her  lips, 
thinking  the  others  might  hear.     Roger  heard 
— and  wondered — but  said  nothing. 

After  he  went  home,  Barbara  still  sat  by  the 
fire,  in  that  surcease  which  comes  when  one  is 
unable  to  sustain  grief  longer  and  it  steps 
aside,  to  wait  a  little,  before  taking  a  fresh 
hold.  She  could  wonder  now  about  the  letter, 
in  her  mother's  writing,  that  she  had  picked  up 
from  the  floor,  and  which  her  father  had  found, 
and  very  possibly  read.  She  hesitated  to  ask 
Miriam  anything  concerning  either  her  father 
or  her  mother. 

But,  while  she  sat  there,  Miriam  came  into 
the  room,  urged  by  goading  impulses  without 
number  and  one  insupportable  need.  She  stood 
near  Barbara  for  several  minutes  without  speak 
ing;  then  she  began,  huskily,  "  Barbara " 

The  girl  turned,  wearily.     "Yes?" 

"  I  've  got  something  to  say  and  I  don't 
know  but  what  to-night  is  as  good  a  time  as 
any.  Neither  of  us  are  likely  to  sleep  much." 

Barbara  did  not  answer. 

"I  hated  your  mother,"  said  Miriam,  pas 
sionately.  "  I  always  hated  her." 

"  I  guessed  that,"  answered  Barbara,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  Your  father  was  in  love  with  me  when  she 
came  from  school,  with  her  doll-face  and 
pretty  ways.  She  took  him  away  from  me. 
He  never  looked  at  me  after  he  saw  her.  I 


parfcon 


281 


had  to  stand  by  and  see  it,  help  her  with  her 
pretty  clothes,  and  even  be  maid  of  honour  at 
the  wedding.  It  was  hard,  but  I  did  it. 

"She  loved  him,  in  a  way,  but  it  wasn't 
much  of  a  way.  She  liked  the  fine  clothes  and 
the  trinkets  he  gave  her,  but,  after  he  went 
blind,  she  could  hardly  tolerate  him.  Lots  of 
times,  she  would  have  been  downright  cruel 
to  him  if  I  had  n't  made  her  do  differently. 

"The  first  time  they  came  here  for  the 
Summer,  she  met  Laurence  Austin,  Roger's 
father,  and  it  was  love  at  first  sight  on  both 
sides.  They  used  to  see  each  other  every  day 
either  here  or  out  somewhere.  After  you  were 
born,  the  first  place  she  went  was  down 
to  the  shore  to  meet  him.  I  know,  for  I 
followed. 

"When  your  father  asked  where  she  was,  I 
lied  to  him,  not  only  then,  but  many  times. 
I  was  n't  screening  her — I  was  shielding  him. 
It  went  on  for  over  a  year,  then  she  took  the 
laudanum.  She  left  four  notes — one  to  me, 
one  to  your  father,  one  to  you,  and  one  to 
Laurence  Austin.  I  never  delivered  that,  even 
though  she  haunted  me  almost  every  night  for 
five  years.  After  he  died,  she  still  haunted  me, 
but  it  was  less  often,  and  different. 

"  When  you  sent  me  into  your  father's  room 
after  that  letter  he  had  in  his  pocket,  I  took 
time  to  read  it.  She  said,  there,  that  she 
did  n't  trust  me,  and  that  I  had  always  loved 


/SMtiam'e 
Confession 


282 


flower  of  tbe  Busfc 


flDiriam'a 

Confession 


your  father.  It  was  true  enough,  but  I  did  n't 
know  she  knew  it. 

"After  you  took  the  letter  out,  I  put  in  the 
one  to  Laurence  Austin.  I  'd  opened  it  and 
read  it  some  little  time  back.  I  thought  it  was 
time  he  knew  her  as  she  was,  and  I  never 
thought  about  no  name  being  mentioned  in  it. 

"When  he  tore  off  the  bandages,  he  read 
that  letter,and  never  knew  that  it  wasn't  meant 
for  him.  Then,  when  you  came  in  in  that  old 
dress  of  your  mother's,  he  thought  it  was  her 
come  back  to  him,  and  never  knew  any 
different." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "Well  ?"  said 
Barbara,  wearily.  It  did  not  seem  as  if 
anything  mattered. 

"  I  just  want  you  to  know  that  I  've  hated 
your  mother  all  my  life,  ever  since  she  came 
home  from  school.  I  've  hated  you  because 
you  look  like  her.  I  've  hated  your  father 
because  he  talked  so  of  her  all  the  time,  and 
hated  myself  for  loving  him.  I  've  hated 
everybody,  but  I  've  done  my  duty,  as  far  as  I 
know.  I  've  scrubbed  and  slaved  and  taken 
care  of  you  and  your  father,  and  done  the  best 
I  could. 

"When  I  put  that  letter  into  his  pocket,  I 
intended  for  him  to  know  that  Constance  was  in 
love  with  another  man.  I  'd  have  read  it  to 
him  long  ago  if  I  'd  had  any  idea  he  'd  believe 
me.  When  he  thought  it  was  for  him,  I  was 


parfcon  283 


mst  on  the  verge  of  telling  him  different  when 

°  ...         ,ij 

you  came  in  and  stopped  me.     You  looked  so      ful 
much  like  your  mother  I  thought  Constance 
had   taken   to  walking  down   here  daytimes 
instead  of  back  and  forth  in  my  room  at  night. 

"I  suppose,"  Miriam  went  on,  in  a  strange 
tone,  "that  I  've  killed  him — that  there  's 
murder  on  my  hands  as  well  as  hate  in  my 
heart.  I  suppose  you  '11  want  to  make  some 
different  arrangements  now — you  won't  want 
to  go  on  living  with  me  after  I  've  killed  your 
father." 

"Aunt  Miriam,"  said  Barbara,  calmly,  "  I  've 
known  for  a  long  time  almost  everything  you've 
told  me,  but  I  did  n't  know  how  father  got  the 
letter.  I  thought  he  must  have  found  it  some 
where  in  the  desk  or  in  his  own  room,  or  even 
in  the  attic.  You  did  n't  kill  him  any  more 
than  I  did,  by  coming  into  the  room  in  mother's 
gown.  What  he  really  died  of  was  a  great, 
wonderful  joy  that  suddenly  broke  a  heart 
too  weak  to  hold  it.  And,  even  though  I  've 
wanted  my  father  to  see  me,  all  my  life  long, 
I  'd  rather  have  had  it  as  it  was,  and  he  would, 
too.  I  'm  sure  of  that. 

"  He  told  me  once  the  three  things  he  most 
wanted  to  see  in  the  world  were  mother's 
letter,  saying  that  she  loved  him,  then  mother 
herself,  and,  last  of  all,  me.  And  for  a  long 
time  his  dearest  dream  has  been  that  I  could 
walk  and  he  could  see.  So  when,  in  the  space 


3f lower  ot  tbe  Busfe 


t>uman 
Ssmpatb? 
anb  love 


of  five  or  ten  minutes,  all  the  dreams  came 
true,  his  heart  failed/' 

"  But,"  Miriam  persisted,  "  I  meant  to  do 
him  harm."  Her  burning  eyes  were  keenly 
fixed  upon  Barbara's  face. 

"Sometimes,"  answered  the  girl,  gently,  "I 
think  that  right  must  come  from  trying  to  do 
wrong,  to  make  up  for  the  countless  times 
wrong  comes  from  trying  to  do  right.  Father 
could  not  have  had  greater  joy,  even  in  heaven, 
than  you  and  I  gave  him  at  the  last,  neither  of 
us  meaning  to  do  it." 

The  stern  barrier  that  had  reared  itself 
between  Miriam  and  her  kind  suddenly- 
crumbled  and  fell.  Warm  tides  of  human 
sympathy  and  love  came  into  her  numb  heart 
and  ice-bound  soul.  The  lines  in  her  face 
relaxed,  her  hands  ceased  to  tremble,  and  her 
burning  eyes  softened  with  the  mist  of  tears. 
Her  mouth  quivered  as  she  said  words  she 
had  not  even  dreamed  of  saying  for  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century: 

"Will  you — can  you — forgive  me?" 

All  that  she  needed  from  the  dead  and  all 
they  could  have  given  her  came  generously 
from  Barbara.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
threw  her  arms  around  Miriam's  neck.  "Oh, 
Aunty  !  Aunty !"  she  cried,  "indeed  I  do,  not 
only  for  myself,  but  for  father  and  mother, 
too.  We  don't  forgive  enough,  we  don't  love 
enough,  we  're  not  kind  enough,  and  that 's 


285 


all  that 's  wrong  with  the  world.     There  is  n't     »t  peace 
time   enough   for   bitterness — the   end  comes 
too  soon." 

Miriam  went  upstairs,  strangely  uplifted, 
strangely  at  peace.  She  was  no  longer  alien 
and  apart,  but  one  with  the  world.  She 
had  a  sense  of  universal  kinship — almost  of 
brotherhood.  That  night  she  slept,  for  the 
first  time  in  more  than  twenty  years,  without 
the  fear  of  Constance. 

And  Constance,  who  was  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning,  and  whose  faithful  old  husband 
had  that  day  lain  down,  in  joy  and  triumph, 
to  rest  beside  her  in  the  churchyard,  came 
no  more. 


286 


tbfns 

"Cdronc? 


iD 
1\ 


XXI 

Ebe  perils  of  tbe  Cits 

OGER,"  remarked  Miss  Mattie,  laying 
aside  her  paper,  "  I  don't  know  as  I  'm 
in  favour  of  havin'  you  go  to  the  city.  Can't 
you  get  the  Judge  another  dog  ?" 

"Why  not,  Mother?"  asked  Roger,  ignoring 
her  question. 

"  Because  it  seems  to  me,  from  all  I  've 
been  readin'  and  hearin'  lately,  that  the  city 
ain't  a  proper  place  for  a  young  person.  Take 
that  minister,  now,  that  those  folks  brought 
down  for  Ambrose  North's  funeral.  I  never 
heard  anything  like  it  in  all  my  life.  You 
was  there  and  you  heard  what  he  said,  so 
there  ain't  no  need  of  dwellin'  on  it,  but  it 
was  n't  what  I  'm  accustomed  to  in  the  way 
of  funerals."  Miss  Mattie's  militant  hair 
pins  bristled  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  thought  it  was  all  right,  Mother.  What 
was  wrong  with  it  ?" 

"Wrong!"  repeated  Miss  Mattie,  in  astonish 
ment.  "  Everything  was  wrong  with  it  !  Am- 


Ube  perils  of  tbe  Gits 


287 


brose  North  was  n't  a  church-member  and 
he  never  went  more  'n  once  or  twice  that  I 
know  of,  even  after  the  Lord  chastened  him 
with  blindness  for  not  goin'.  There  was  no 
power  to  the  sermon  and  no  cryin'  except 
Barbara  and  that  Miss  Wynne  that  sang  that 
outlandish  piece  instead  of  a  hymn. 

"Why,  Roger,  I  was  to  a  funeral  once  over 
to  the  Ridge  where  the  corpse  was  an  un- 
baptized  infant,  and  you  ought  to  have  heard 
that  preacher  describin'  the  abode  of  the 
lost!  The  child's  mother  fainted  dead  away 
and  had  to  be  carried  out  of  the  church,  it 
was  that  powerful  and  movin'.  That  was 
somethin'  like!" 

It  was  in  Roger's  mind  to  say  he  was  glad 
that  the  minister  had  not  made  Barbara  faint, 
but  he  wisely  kept  silent. 

"That 's  only  one  thing,"  Miss  Mattie  went 
on.  "What  with  religion  bein'  in  that  con 
dition  in  the  city,  and  the  life  folks  live  there, 
I  don't  think  it 's  any  fit  place  for  a  person 
that  ain't  strong  in  the  faith,  and  you  know 
you  ain't,  Roger.  You  take  after  your  pa. 

"I  was  readin'  in  The  Metropolitan  Weekly 
only  last  week  a  story  about  a  lovely  young 
orphan  that  was  caught  one  night  by  a  rejected 
suitor  and  tied  to  the  railroad  track.  Just 
as  the  train  was  goin'  to  run  over  her,  the  man 
she  wanted  to  marry  come  along  on  the  dead 
run  with  a  knife  and  cut  her  bonds.  She 


life  in  tbc 


288 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfc 


/ftattie'a 
tfcars 


got  off  the  track  just  as  the  night  express 
come  around  the  curve,  goin'  ninety-five 
miles  an  hour. 

"This  man  says  to  her,  'Genevieve,  will 
you  come  to  me  now,  and  let  me  put  you  out 
of  this  dread  villain's  power  forever?'  Then 
he  opened  his  arms  and  the  beautiful  Genevieve 
fled  to  them  as  to  some  ark  of  safety  and  laid 
her  pale  and  weary  face  upon  his  lovin'  and 
forgivin'  heart.  That 's  the  exact  endin'  of 
it,  and  I  must  say  it 's  written  beautiful,  but 
when  I  wake  up  in  the  night  and  think  about 
it,  I  get  scared  to  have  you  go. 

"You  ain't  so  bad  lookin',  Roger,  and 
you  're  gettin'  to  the  age  where  you  might 
be  expected  to  take  notice,  and  what  if  some 
designing  female  should  tie  you  to  the  railroad 
track?  I  declare,  it  makes  me  nervous  to 
think  of  it." 

Roger  did  not  like  to  shake  his  mother's 
faith  in  The  Metropolitan  Weekly,  but  he 
longed  to  set  her  fears  at  rest.  "Those  things 
are  n't  true,  Mother,"  he  said,  kindly.  "They 
not  only  have  n't  happened,  but  they  couldn  't 
happen — it 's  impossible." 

"Roger,  what  do  you  mean  by  sayin'  such 
things.  Of  course  it 's  true,  or  it  would  n't 
be  in  the  paper.  Ain't  it  right  there  in  print, 
as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face  ?  You  can 
see  for  yourself.  I  hope  studyin'  law  ain't 
goin'  to  make  an  infidel  of  you." 


TTbe  perils  of  tbe  <Eit£ 


289 


I  don  t  think  it  will,     temporised  Roger. 

« i  MI  i  i  i    f       j      •       •        r          i  Wllafn 

I  11  keep  a  close  watch  for  designing  females, 
and  will  avoid  railroad  tracks  at  night." 

Miss  Mattie  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 
"That  ain't  a  goin'  to  do  no  good,  Roger,  if 
they  once  get  set  after  you.  I  've  noticed 
that  the  villain  always  triumphs." 

"  But  only  for  a  little  while,  Mother.  Surely 
you  must  have  seen  that?" 

She  settled  her  steel-bowed  spectacles  firmly 
on  the  wart  and  gazed  at  him.  "I  believe 
you  're  right,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments 
of  reflection.  "I  can't  recall  no  story  now 
where  the  villain  was  not  foiled  at  last.  Let 
me  see — there  was  Lovely  Lulu,  or  the 
Doctor's  Darling,  and  Margaret  Merriman, 
or  the  Maiden  s  Mad  Marriage,  and  True 
Gold,  or  Pretty  Crystal's  Love,  and  The 
American  Countess,  or  Hearts  Aflame,  and 
this  one  I  was  just  speakin'  of,  Genevieve 
Carleton,  or  the  Brakeman's  Bride.  In  every 
one  of  'em,  the  villain  got  his  just  deserts, 
though  sometimes  they  was  disjointed  owin'  to 
the  story  bein'  broke  off  at  the  most  interestin' 
point  and  continued  the  followin'  week." 

"Well,  if  the  villain  is  always  foiled,  you  're 
surely  not  afraid,  are  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  'm  afraid  in  the  long  run, 
but  I  don't  like  to  have  you  go  through  such 
things  and  be  exposed  to  the  temptations  of 
a  great  city." 


290 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


ilparts 

mente  ai 

JTlat* 


"Why  don't  you  come  with  me,  Mother,  and 
keep  house  for  me?  We  can  find  a  little  flat 
somewhere,  and " 

"What  on  earth  is  that?" 

"  I  've  never  been  in  one  myself,  but  Miss 
Wynne  said  that,  if  you  wanted  to  come,  she 
would  find  us  a  flat,  or  an  apartment/' 

"What 's  the  difference  between  a  flat  and 
an  apartment  ?" 

"That 's  what  I  asked  her.  She  said  it  was 
just  the  rent.  You  pay  more  for  an  apart 
ment  than  you  do  for  a  flat." 

"  I  would  n't  want  anything  I  had  to  pay 
more  for,"  observed  Miss  Mattie,  stroking  her 
chin  thoughtfully.  "  You  ain't  told  me  what 
a  flat  is." 

"A  few  rooms  all  on  one  floor,  like  a  cottage. 
It  's  like  several  cottages,  all  under  one  roof." 

"  What  do  they  want  to  cover  the  cottages 
with  a  roof  for  ?  Don't  they  want  light  and 
air?" 

"You  don't  understand,  Mother.  Suppose 
that  our  house  here  was  an  apartment  house. 
The  stairs  would  be  shut  off  from  these  rooms 
and  the  hall  would  be  accessible  from  the 
street.  Instead  of  having  three  rooms  up 
stairs,  there  might  be  six — one  of  them  a 
kitchen  and  the  others  living-rooms  and  bed 
rooms.  Don't  you  see?" 

"  You  mean  a  kitchen  on  the  same  floor 
with  the  bedrooms  ?" 


ZTbe  perils  of  tbe 


291 


"Yes,  all  the  rooms  on  one  floor/' 

"Just  as  if  an  earthquake  was  to  jolt  off  the 
top  of  the  house  and  shake  all  the  bedrooms 
down  here?" 

" Something  like  that." 

"Well,  then/'  said  Miss  Mattie,  firmly,  "all 
I  've  got  to  say  is  that  it  ain't  decent.  Think 
of  people  sleepin'  just  off  kitchens  and  washin' 
their  faces  and  hands  in  the  sink." 

"I  think  some  of  them  must  be  very  nice, 
Mother.  Miss  Wynne  expects  to  live  in  an 
apartment  after  she  is  married  and  she  has  a 
little  one  of  her  own  now.  If  you  '11  come 
with  me  we  '11  find  some  place  that  you  '11 
like.  I  don  't  want  to  leave  you  alone  here." 

"No,"  she  answered,  after  due  deliberation, 
"  I  reckon  I  '11  stay  here.  You  can't  trans 
plant  an  old  tree  and  you  can't  take  a  woman 
who  has  lived,  all  her  life  in  a  house  and  put 
her  in  a  place  where  there  are  several  cottages 
all  under  one  roof  with  bedrooms  off  of  kitchens 
and  folks  washin'  in  the  sinks.  Miss  Wynne 
can  do  it  if  she  likes,  but  I  was  brought  up 
different." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  be  lonesome." 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  any  more 
lonesome  than  I  always  have  been.  All  I  see 
of  you  is  at  meals  and  while  you  're  readin' 
nights.  You  're  just  like  your  pa.  If  I 
propped  up  a  book  by  the  lamp,  it  would  be 
just  as  sociable  as  it  is  to  have  you  settin' 


THnber  One 
•Roof 


292 


fflower  of  tbe  E>usfe 


Ube  Slue 

Date 
•Klbbon 


here.  Readin'  is  a  good  thing  in  its  place  and 
I  enjoy  it  myself,  but  sometimes  it 's  pleasant 
to  hear  the  human  voice  sayin'  somethin' 
besides  'What?'  and  'Yes'  and  'All  right'  and 
'Is  supper  ready  ?' 

"  I  've  been  lookin'  over  your  things  to-day 
and  gettin'  'em  ready.  The  moths  has  ate 
your  Winter  flannels  and  you  '11  have  to  get 
more.  I  've  mended  your  coat  linin's  and 
sewed  on  buttons,  and  darned  and  patched, 
and  I  've  took  Barbara  North's  blue  hair 
ribbon  back  to  her — the  one  you  found  some 
place  and  had  in  your  pocket.  You  must  n't 
be  careless  about  those  things,  Roger — she 
might  think  you  meant  to  steal  it." 

"What  did  Barbara  say?"  he  stammered. 
The  high  colour  had  mounted  to  his  temples. 

"She  did  n't  know  what  to  say  at  first,  but 
she  recognised  it  as  her  hair  ribbon.  I  told 
her  you  had  n't  meant  to  steal  it — that  you  'd 
just  found  it  somewheres  and  had  forgot  to  give 
it  to  her,  and  it  was  all  right.  She  laughed 
some,  but  it  was  a  funny  laugh.  You  must 
be  careful,  Roger — you  won't  always  have 
your  mother  to  get  yoy  out  of  scrapes." 

Roger  wondered  if  the  knot  of  blue  ribbon 
that  had  so  strangely  gone  back  to  Barbara 
had,  by  any  chance,  carried  to  her  its  intan 
gible  freight  of  dreams  and  kisses,  with  a 
boyish  tear  or  two,  of  which  he  had  the  grace 
not  to  be  ashamed. 


ZTbe  perils  of  tbe  City 


293 


"  Your  pa  was  in  the  habit  of  annexin'  female 
belongin's,  though  the  Lord  knows  where  he 
ever  got  'em.  I  suppose  he  picked  'em  up 
on  the  street — he  was  so  dreadful  absent- 
minded.  He  was  systematic  about  'em  in  a 
way,  though.  After  he  died,  I  found  'em 
all  put  away  most  careful  in  a  box — a  hand 
kerchief  and  one  kid  glove,  and  a  piece  of 
ribbon  about  like  the  one  I  took  back  to 
Barbara.  He  was  flighty  sometimes:  constant 
devotion  to  readin'  had  unsettled  his  mind. 

"That  brings  me  to  what  I  wanted  to  say 
when  I  first  started  out.  I  don't  want  you 
should  load  up  your  trunk  with  your  pa's 
books  to  the  exclusion  of  your  clothes,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  spend  your  evenin's 
readin'." 

"  I  'm  not  apt  to  read  very  much,  Mother, 
if  I  work  in  an  office  in  the  daytime  and  go  to 
law  school  at  night." 

"That's  so,  too,  but  there's  Sundays. 
You  can  take  any  ten  of  your  pa's  books  that 
you  like,  but  no  more.  I  '11  keep  the  rest 
here  against  the  time  the  train  is  blocked  and 
the  mails  don't  come  through.  I  may  get  a 
taste  for  your  pa's  books  myself." 

Roger  did  not  think  it  likely,  but  he  was 
too  wise  to  say  so. 

"And  I  didn't  tell  you  this  before,  but 
I  've  made  it  my  business  to  go  and  see  the 
Judge  and  tell  him  how  you  saved  my  life  at 


TTen  S5oofcs 


294 


ff lower  of  tbe  H)usfe 


"/l>e  anb 
flDfrfam  " 


the  expense  of  Fido's.  I  don't  know  when 
I  've  seen  a  man  so  mad.  I  was  goin'  to 
suggest  that  we  get  him  another  dog  from 
some  place,  and  land  sakes!  he  clean  drove  it 
out  of  my  mind. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  Ve  stood  it,  bein' 
there  in  the  office  with  him,  and  I  told  him 
so.  He's  got  a  red-headed  boy  from  the 
Ridge  in  there  now,  and  I  think  maybe  the 
Judge  will  get  what's  comin'  to  him  before 
he  gets  through.  I  've  learned  not  to  trifle 
with  anybody  what  has  red  hair,  but  seemin'ly 
the  Judge  ain't.  It  takes  some  folks  a  long 
time  to  learn. 

"Barbara's  goin'  to  the  city,  too,  to  spend 
the  Winter  with  that  Miss  Wynne  in  the 
cottage  that 's  under  the  same  roof  with 
other  cottages  and  the  bedrooms  off  the 
kitchen.  I  don't  know  how  Barbara  '11  take 
to  washin'  in  the  sink,  when  she's  always  had 
that  rose-sprigged  bowl  and  pitcher  of  her 
ma's,  but  it 's  her  business,  not  mine,  and  if 
she  wants  to  go,  she  can. 

"Me  and  Miriam  '11  set  together  evenings 
and  keep  each  other  from  bein'  lonesome. 
She  ain't  much  more  company  than  a  cow, 
as  far  as  talkin'  goes,  but  there's  a  feelin,'  some 
way,  about  another  person  bein'  in  the  house, 
when  the  wind  gets  to  howlin'  down  the 
chimney.  We  may  arrange  to  have  supper 
together,  once  in  a  while,  and  in  case  of  severe 


perils  ot  tbe  Gits  29  5 


weather,  put  the  two  fires  goin'  in  one  house, 

which  ever's  the  warmest.  Hutomo! 

"I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do,  for  we 
ain't  talked  it  over  much  yet,  but  with  church 
twice  on  Sunday  and  prayer-meet  in'  Wednes 
day  evenings,  and  the  sewin'  circle  on  Friday, 
and  two  New  York  papers  every  week,  and 
Miriam,  and  all  your  pa's  books  to  prop  up 
against  the  lamp,  I  don't  reckon  I  '11  get  so 
dreadful  lonesome.  I  've  thought  some  of 
gettin'  myself  a  cat.  There's  somethin' 
mighty  comfortable  and  heartenin'  about  a 
cup  of  hot  tea  and  the  sound  of  purrin'  close 
by.  And  on  the  Spring  excursion  to  the 
city,  I  reckon  I  '11  come  up  and  see  you,  if  I 
don't  have  no  more  pain  in  my  back." 

"I  'd  love  to  have  you  come,  Mother,  and 
I  'd  do  all  I  could  to  give  you  a  good  time. 
I  know  the  others  would,  too.  Doctor  Conrad 
has  an  automobile  and " 

Miss  Mattie  became  deeply  concerned. 
"  Is  he  treatin'  himself  for  it  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  answered  Roger,  choking 
back  a  laugh. 

"  It  beats  all,"  mused  Miss  Mattie.  "They 
say  the  shoemaker's  children  never  have 
shoes,  and  it  seems  that  doctors  have  diseases 
just  like  other  folks.  I  disremember  of  havin' 
heard  of  this,  but  I  know  from  my  own  ex 
perience  that  a  disease  with  only  one  word 
to  it  can  be  dreadful  painful.  Is  it  catchin'?" 


296  fflower  of  tbe  2>u0fe 


TOieR>e&  "Not  with  full  speed  on,"  replied  Roger. 
"An  automobile  is  very  hard  to  catch/' 

"Well,  see  that  you  don't  take  it,"  cautioned 
Miss  Mattie.  The  first  part  of  his  answer 
was  obscure,  but  she  was  not  one  to  pause 
over  an  uninteresting  detail. 

"You've  warned  me  about  almost  every 
thing  now,  Mother,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Is 
there  anything  else?" 

"Nothing  but  matrimony,  and  that 's  in 
cluded  under  the  head  of  designing  females. 
I  should  n't  want  you  to  get  married." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  could  tell  you  just  why, 
only  it  seems  to  me  that  a  person  is  just  as  well 
off  without  it.  I  've  been  thinking  of  it  a  good 
deal  since  I  've  had  these  New  York  papers 
and  read  so  much  about  two  souls  bein' 
welded  into  one.  My  soul  was  n't  never 
welded  with  your  pa's,  nor  his  with  mine, 
as  I  know  of. 

"Marriage  wasn't  so  dreadful  different 
from  livin'  at  home.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
Summer  ma  took  a  boarder,  your  pa  required 
so  much  waitin'  on.  And  when  you  came, 
I  had  a  baby  to  take  care  of  besides.  If  I  was 
welded  I  never  noticed  it — I  was  too  busy." 

Roger's  heart  softened  into  unspeakable 
pity.  In  missing  the  "welding,"  Miss  Mattie 
had  missed  the  best  that  life  has  to  give. 
Somewhere,  doubtless,  the  man  existed  who 


Ube  perils  of  tbe  Cits 


297 


could  have  stirred  the  woman's  soul  beneath 
the  surface  shallows  and  set  the  sordid  tasks 
of  daily  living  in  tune  with  the  music  that 
sways  the  world. 

"  There  's  a  good  deal  in  the  papers  about 
un-marriage,  too,"  resumed  Miss  Mattie, 
"and  I  can  't  understand  it.  When  you  've 
stood  before  the  altar  and  said  'till  death  do 
us  part/  I  don't  see  how  another  man,  who 
ain't  even  a  minister,  can  undo  it  and  let  you 
have  another  chance  at  it.  Maybe  you  do, 
bein'  as  you  're  up  in  law,  but  I  don't. 

"  It  looks  to  me  as  if  the  laws  were  wrong 
or  else  the  marriage  ceremony  ought  to  be 
written  different.  If  a  man  said,  '  I  take  thee 
to  be  my  wedded  wife,  to  love  and  to  cherish 
until  I  see  somebody  else  I  like  better/  I  could 
understand  the  un-marriage,  but  I  can't  now. 
When  you  get  to  be  a  power  in  the  law,  Roger, 
I  think  you  should  try  to  get  that  fixed.  I 
never  was  welded,  but  after  I  'd  given  my 
word,  I  stuck  to  it,  even  though  your  pa  was 
dreadful  aggravatin'  sometimes.  He  did  n't 
mean  to  be,  but  he  was.  I  guess  it 's  the 
nature  of  men  folks." 

Deeply  moved,  Roger  went  over  and  kissed 
her  smooth  cheek.  "  Have  I  been  aggravating, 
Mother?" 

Miss  Mattie's  eyes  grew  misty.  She  took 
off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them  briskly  on 
one  corner  of  the  table-cover.  "No  more 'n 


"THn» 
marriage 


298 


flower  of  tbe  2>u0fe 


IRcmcmbcr 


was  natural,  I  guess,"  she  answered.  "  You  've 
been  a  good  boy,  Roger,  and  I  want  you  should 
be  a  good  man.  When  you  get  away  from 
home,  where  your  mother  can't  look  after  you, 
just  remember  that  she  expects  you  to  be  good, 
like  your  pa.  He  might  have  been  aggra- 
vatin',  but  he  was  n't  wicked." 

All  the  best  part  of  the  boy's  nature  rose  in 
answer,  and  the  mist  came  into  his  eyes,  too. 
"  I  '11  remember,  Mother,  and  you  shall  never 
be  disappointed  in  me — I  promise  you  that." 


XXII 

Hutumn  Xeaves 

OUMMER  had  gone  long  ago,  but  the  sweet- 
O  ness  of  her  passing  yet  lay  upon  the  land 
and  sea.  The  hills  were  glorious  with  a  pa 
geantry  of  scarlet  and  gold  where,  in  the 
midnight  silences,  the  soul  of  the  woods  had 
flamed  in  answer  to  the  far,  mysterious 
bugles  of  the  frost.  Bloom  was  on  the  grapes 
in  the  vineyard,  and  fairy  lace,  of  cobweb  fine 
ness,  had  been  hung  by  the  secret  spinners 
from  stem  to  stem  of  the  purple  clusters  and 
across  bits  of  stubble  in  the  field. 

From  the  blue  sea,  now  and  then,  came  the 
breath  of  Winter,  though  Autumn  lingered  on 
the  shore.  Many  of  the  people  at  the  hotel 
had  gone  back  to  town,  feeling  the  imperious 
call  of  the  city  with  the  first  keen  wind.  El- 
oise,  with  a  few  others,  waited.  She  expected 
to  stay  until  Barbara  was  strong  enough  to  go 
with  her. 

But  Barbara's  strength  was  coming  very 
slowly  now.  She  grieved  for  her  father,  and 


299 


Hutumn 


300 


ffiower  of  tbe  2>u0fe 


THHbat  HOe 


the  grieving  kept  her  back.  Allan  came  down 
once  a  fortnight  to  spend  Sunday  with  Eloise 
and  to  look  after  Barbara,  though  he  realised 
that  Barbara  was,  in  a  way,  beyond  his  reach. 

"She  doesn't  need  medicine,"  he  said,  to 
Eloise.  "She  is  perfectly  well,  physically, 
though  of  course  her  strength  is  limited  and 
will  be  for  some  time  to  come.  What  she 
needs  is  happiness." 

"That  is  what  we  all  need,"  answered 
Eloise. 

Allan  flashed  a  quick  glance  at  her.  "  Even 
I,"  he  said,  in  a  different  tone,  "but  I  must 
wait  for  mine." 

"We  all  wait  for  things,"  she  laughed,  but 
the  lovely  colour  had  mounted  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair  that  waved  so  softly  back  from  her 
low  forehead. 

"When,  dear?"  insisted  Allan,  possessing 
himself  of  her  hand. 

"I  promised  once,"  she  answered.  "When 
the  colour  is  all  gone  from  the  hills  and  the 
last  leaves  have  fallen,  then  I  '11  come." 

"You  're  not  counting  the  oaks?"  he  asked, 
half  fearfully.  "Sometimes  the  oak  leaves 
stay  on  all  Winter,  you  know.  And  evergreens 
are  ruled  out,  are  n't  they  ?" 

"Certainly.  We  won't  count  the  oaks  or 
the  Christmas  trees.  Long  before  Santa  Claus 
comes,  I  '11  be  a  sedate  matron  instead  of  a 
flyaway,  frivolous  spinster." 


autumn  Xeax>es 


301 


"For  the  first  time  since  I  grew  up,"  re 
marked  Allan,  with  evident  sincerity,  "  I  wish 
Christmas  came  earlier.  Upon  what  day, 
fair  lady,  do  you  think  the  leaves  will  be 
gone  ?" 

''In  November,  I  suppose,"  she  answered, 
with  an  affected  indifference  that  did  not 
deceive  him.  "The  day  after  Thanksgiving, 
perhaps." 

"That 's  Friday,  and  I  positively  refuse  to 
be  married  on  a  Friday." 

"Then  the  day  before — that  's  Wednesday. 
You  know  the  old  rhyme  says:  'Wednesday 
the  best  day  of  all.'" 

So  it  was  settled.  Allan  laughingly  put 
down  in  his  little  red  leather  pocket  diary,  un 
der  the  date  of  Wednesday,  November  twenty- 
fifth,  "Miss  Wynne's  wedding/'  "Where  is  it 
to  be?"  he  asked.  "I  wouldn't  miss  it  for 
worlds." 

"  I  've  been  thinking  about  that,"  said 
Eloise,  slowly,  after  a  pause.  "I  suppose 
we  '11  have  to  be  conventional." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  everybody  is." 

"The  very  reason  why  we  should  n't  be. 
This  is  our  wedding,  and  we  '11  have  it  to  please 
ourselves.  It  's  probably  our  last." 

"  In  spite  of  the  advanced  civilisation  in 
which  we  live,"  she  returned,  "I  hope  and 
believe  that  it  is  the  one  and  only  wedding 


Ube  JBeet 
H>ag  of  Bit 


302 


jfiower  of  tbe  Busft 


Bn  Ideal 

ICU&&UU1 


in  which  either  of  us  will  ever  take  a  leading 
part." 

"  Have  n't  you  ever  had  day-dreams,  dear, 
about  your  wedding  ?" 

"Many  a  time/'  she  laughed.  "I'd  be 
the  rankest  kind  of  polygamist  if  I  had  all  the 
kinds  I  've  planned  for." 

"  But  the  best  kind  ?"  he  persisted.  "Which 
is  in  the  ascendant  now  ?" 

"If  I  could  choose,"  she  replied,  thought 
fully,  "  I  'd  have  it  in  some  quiet  little  country 
church,  on  a  brilliant,  sunshiny  day — the  kind 
that  makes  your  blood  tingle  and  fills  you 
with  the  joy  of  living.  I  'd  like  it  to  be  Indian 
Summer,  with  gold  and  crimson  leaves  falling 
all  through  the  woods.  I  'd  like  to  have  little 
brown  birds  chirping,  and  squirrels  and  chip 
munks  pattering  through  the  leaves.  I  'd  like 
to  have  the  church  almost  in  the  heart  of  the 
woods,  and  have  the  sun  stream  into  every 
nook  and  corner  of  it  while  we  were  being 
married.  I  'd  like  two  taper  lights  at  the 
altar,  and  the  Episcopal  service,  but  no 
music." 

"Any  crowd?" 

Her  sweet  face  grew  very  tender.  "No," 
she  said.  "Nobody  but  our  two  selves." 

"We  '11  have  to  have  a  minister,"  he  re 
minded  her,  practically,  "and  two  witnesses. 
Otherwise  it  is  n't  legal.  Whom  would  you 
choose  for  witnesses?" 


Hutumn  Xea\>es 


303 


"  I  think  I  'd  like  to  have  Barbara  and 
Roger.  I  don't  know  why,  for  I  have  so  many 
other  friends  who  mean  more  to  me.  Yet  it 
seems,  some  way,  as  if  they  two  belonged 
in  the  picture." 

A  bright  idea  came  to  Allan.  "Dearest," 
he  said,  "you  could  n't  have  the  falling  leaves 
and  the  squirrels  if  we  waited  until  Thanks 
giving  time,  but  it 's  all  here,  right  now.  Don't 
you  remember  that  little  church  in  the  woods 
that  we  passed  the  other  day — the  little  white 
church  with  maples  all  around  it  and  the 
Autumn  leaves  dropping  silently  through  the 
still,  warm  air  ?  Why  not  here — and  now  ?" 

"Oh,  I  could  n't,"  cried  Eloise. 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  you  're  so  stupid  !  Clothes  and  things ! 
I  've  got  a  million  things  to  do  before  I  can  be 
married  decently." 

He  laughed  at  her  woman's  reason  as  he 
put  his  arms  around  her.  "I  want  a  wife, 
and  not  a  Parisian  wardrobe.  You  're  lovelier 
to  me  right  now  in  your  white  linen  gown  than 
you  've  ever  been  before.  Don't  wear  yourself 
out  with  dressmakers  and  shopping.  You  '11 
have  all  the  rest  of  your  life  for  that." 

"Won't  I  have  all  the  rest  of  my  life  to  get 
married  in?"  she  queried,  demurely. 

"You  have  if  you  insist  upon  taking  it, 
darling,  but  I  feel  very  strongly  to  get  married 
to-day." 


tfctybt 

•ROW 


304 


fflower  ot  tbe  2>usfe 


Ube 
Concerned 


"Not  to-day,"  she  demurred. 

"Why  not  ?  It 's  only  half  past  one  and  the 
ceremony  does  n't  last  over  twenty  minutes. 
I  suppose  it  can  be  cut  down  to  fifteen  or 
eighteen  if  you  insist  upon  having  it  condensed. 
You  don't  even  need  to  wash  your  face.  Get 
your  hat  and  come  on." 

His  tone  was  tender,  even  pleading,  but  some 
far  survival  of  Primitive  Woman,  whose  mar 
riage  was  by  capture,  stirred  faintly  in  Eloise. 
"Our  friends  won't  like  it,"  she  said,  as  a  last 
excuse. 

He  noted,  with  joy,  that  she  said  "won't," 
instead  of  "would  n't,"  but  she  did  not  realise 
that  she  had  betrayed  herself.  "We  don't 
care,  do  we?"  he  asked.  "It 's  our  wedding 
and  nobody's  else.  When  we  can't  please 
everybody,  we  might  as  well  please  ourselves. 
Matrimony  is  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
concerns  nobody  but  the  two  who  enter  into  it 
— and  it's  the  thing  that  everybody  has  the  most 
to  say  about.  While  you  're  putting  on  your 
hat,  I  '11  get  the  license  and  see  about  a  carriage." 

"  I  thought  I  'd  wait  until  Barbara  could  go 
to  town  with  me,"  she  said. 

"There's  nothing  to  hinder  your  coming 
back  for  her,  if  you  want  to  and  she  isn't 
willing  to  come  with  Roger.  I  insist  upon 
having  my  honeymoon  alone." 

"All  alone  ?  If  I  were  very  good,  would  n't 
you  let  me  come  along  ?" 


Butumn  Xeax>es  305 

Allan  coloured.  "You  know  what  I  mean," 
he  said,  softly.  "  I  've  waited  so  long,  darling, 
and  I  think  I  've  been  patient.  Is  n't  it  time 
I  was  rewarded  ?" 

They  were  on  the  beach,  behind  the  friendly 
sand-dune  that  had  been  their  trysting  place 
all  Summer.  Thoroughly  humble  in  her  sur 
render,  yet  wholly  womanly,  Eloise  put  her 
soft  arms  around  his  neck.  "  I  will,"  she  said. 
"  Kiss  me  for  the  last  time  before " 

"Before  what?"  demanded  Allan,  as,  laugh 
ing,  she  extricated  herself  from  his  close 
embrace. 

"  Before  you  exchange  your  sweetheart  for 
a  wife." 

"  I  'm  not  making  any  exchange.  I  'm  only 
making  my  possession  more  secure.  Look, 
dear." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  shining  golden 
circlet  which  exactly  fitted  the  third  finger  of 
her  left  hand.  Their  initials  were  engraved 
inside.  Only  the  date  was  lacking. 

"  I  Ve  had  it  for  a  long,  long  time,"  he  said, 
in  reply  to  her  surprised  question.  "  I  hoped 
that  some  day  I  might  find  you  in  a  yielding 
mood." 

When  she  went  up  to  her  room,  her  heart 
was  beating  wildly.  This  sudden  plunge  into 
the  unknown  was  blinding,  even  though  she 
longed  to  make  it.  Having  come  to  the  edge 
of  the  precipice  she  feared  the  leap,  in  spite 


jflower  of  tbe 


Jkauti* 
full? 


ventional 


of  the  conviction  that  life-long  happiness  lay 
beyond. 

In  the  fond  sight  of  her  lover,  Eloise  was 
very  lovely  when  she  went  down  in  her  white 
gown  and  hat,  her  eyes  shining  with  the  world- 
old  joy  that  makes  the  old  world  new  for  those 
to  whom  it  comes,  be  it  soon  or  late. 

"It 's  beautifully  unconventional,"  she  said, 
as  he  assisted  her  into  the  surrey.  "  No  brides 
maids,  no  wedding  presents,  and  no  dreary 
round  of  entertainments.  I  believe  I  like  it." 

"I  know  I  do,"  he  responded,  fervently. 
"  You  're  the  loveliest  thing  I  've  ever  seen, 
sweetheart.  Is  that  a  new  gown?" 

"  I  've  worn  it  all  Summer,"  she  laughed 
"and  it 's  been  washed  over  a  dozen  times. 
You  have  lots  to  learn  about  gowns." 

"  I  'm  a  willing  pupil,"  he  announced. 
"Shouldn't  you  have  a  veil?  I  believe  the 
bride's  veil  is  usually  'of  tulle,  caught  with  a 
diamond  star,  the  gift  of  the  groom/  ' 

"  You  've  been  reading  the  society  column. 
Give  me  the  star,  and  I  '11  get  the  veil." 

"  You  shall  have  it  the  first  minute  we  get 
to  town.  I  'd  rob  the  Milky  Way  for  you,  if  I 
could.  I  'd  give  you  a  handful  of  stars  to 
play  with  and  let  you  roll  the  sun  and  moon 
over  the  golf  links." 

"  I  may  take  the  moon,"  she  replied.  "  I  've 
always  liked  the  looks  of  it,  but  I  'm 
afraid  the  sun  would  burn  my  fingers.  Some- 


Hutumn  %eax>e0  307 

body  once  got  into  trouble,  I  believe,  for  trying        fcbe 
to  drive  the  chariot  of  the  sun  for  a  day. 
Give  me  the  moon  and  just  one  star." 

"Which  star  do  you  want  ?" 

"The  love-star,"  she  answered,  very  softly. 
"Will  you  keep  it  shining  for  me,  in  spite  of 
clouds  and  darkness?" 

"Indeed  I  will." 

The  horses  stopped  at  Barbara's  door.  Al 
lan  went  across  the  street  to  call  for  Roger 
and  Eloise  went  in  to  invite  Barbara  to  go  for 
a  drive. 

"How  lovely  you  look,"  cried  Barbara,  in 
admiration.  "You  look  like  a  bride." 

"Make  yourself  look  bridal  also,"  suggested 
Eloise,  flushing,  "by  putting  on  your  best 
white  gown.  Roger  is  coming,  too." 

Barbara  missed  the  point  entirely.  It  did 
not  take  her  long  to  get  ready,  and  she  sang 
happily  to  herself  while  she  was  dressing.  She 
put  a  white  lace  scarf  of  her  mother's  over  her 
golden  hair,  which  was  now  piled  high  on  her 
shapely  head,  and  started  out,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  her  twenty-two  years,  for  a  journey 
beyond  the  limits  of  her  own  domain. 

Allan  and  Roger  helped  her  in.  She  was 
very  awkward  about  it,  and  was  sufficiently 
impressed  with  her  awkwardness  to  offer  a 
laughing  apology.  "  I  've  never  been  in  a 
carriage  before,"  she  said,  "nor  seen  a  train, 
nor  even  a  church.  All  I  've  had  is  pictures 


3o8 


jflower  ot  tbe  H>usfe 


"Cbc  littU 
HDlbitc 
Cburcb 


and  books — and  Roger,"  she  added,  as  an 
afterthought,  when  he  took  his  place  beside 
her  on  the  back  seat. 

"  You  're  going  to  see  lots  of  things  to-day 
that  you  never  saw  before,"  observed  Allan, 
starting  the  horses  toward  the  hill  road. 
"We  '11  begin  by  showing  you  a  church,  and 
then  a  wedding." 

"A  wedding  !"  cried  Barbara.  "Who  is 
going  to  be  married?" 

"We,"  he  replied,  concisely.  "Don't  you 
think  it 's  time?" 

"Isn't  it  sudden?"  asked  Roger.  "I 
thought  you  were  n't  going  to  be  married 
until  almost  Christmas." 

"  I  've  been  serving  time  now  for  two  years," 
explained  Allan,  "and  she  's  given  me  two 
months  off  for  good  behaviour.  Just  re 
member,  young  man,  when  your  turn  comes, 
that  nothing  is  sudden  when  you  've  been 
waiting  for  it  all  your  life." 

The  door  of  the  little  white  church  was 
open  and  the  sun  that  streamed  through  the 
door  and  the  stained  glass  windows  carried 
the  glory  and  the  radiance  of  Adtumn 
into  every  nook  and  corner  of  it.  At  the 
altar  burned  two  tall  taper  lights,  and  the 
young  minister,  in  white  vestments,  was 
waiting. 

The  joking  mood  was  still  upon  Allan  and 
Eloise,  but  she  requested  in  all  seriousness 


Butumn  Xeaves 


309 


that  the  word  "obey"  be  omitted  from  the 
ceremony. 

"Why?"  asked  the  minister,  gravely. 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to  promise  anything 
I  don't  intend  to  do." 

"Put  it  in  for  me,"  suggested  Allan,  cheer 
fully.  "  I  might  as  well  promise,  for  I  '11  have 
to  do  it  anyway." 

Gradually,  the  hush  and  solemnity  of  the 
church  banished  the  light  mood.  A  new  joy, 
deeper,  and  more  lasting,  took  the  place  of 
laughter  as  they  sat  in  the  front  pew,  reading 
over  the  service.  Barbara  and  Roger  sat 
together,  half  way  down  to  the  door.  Neither 
had  spoken  since  they  entered  the  church 

A  shaft  of  golden  light  lay  full  upon  Eloise's 
face.  In  that  moment,  before  they  went  to 
the  altar,  Allan  was  afraid  of  her,  she  seemed 
so  angelic,  so  unreal.  But  the  minister  was 
waiting,  with  his  open  book.  "Come,"  said 
Allan,  in  a  whisper,  and  she  rose,  smiling,  to 
follow  him,  not  only  then,  but  always. 

"Dearly  Beloved,"  began  the  minister,  "we 
are  gathered  here  together  in  the  sight  of  God 
and  in  the  face  of  this  company,  to  join  to 
gether  this  man  and  this  woman  in  holy  matri 
mony."  He  went  on  through  the  beautiful 
service,  while  the  light  streamed  in,  bearing 
its  fairy  freight  of  colour  and  gold,  and  the 
swift  patter  of  the  Little  People  of  the  Forest 
rustled  through  the  drifting  leaves. 


Ceremony 


3io 


jf  lower  of  tbe  Busfc 


Hfter  tbe 
©r&eal 


It  was  all  as  Eloise  had  chosen,  even  to  the 
two  who  sat  far  back,  with  their  hands  clasped, 
as  wide-eyed  as  children  before  this  sacred 
merging  of  two  souls  into  one. 

A  little  brown  bird  perched  on  the  threshold, 
chirped  a  few  questioning  notes,  then  flew 
away  to  his  own  nest.  Acorns  fell  from  the 
oaks  across  the  road,  and  the  musical  hum  and 
whir  of  Autumn  came  faintly  from  the  fields. 
The  taper  lights  burned  in  the  sunshine  like 
yellow  stars. 

"That  ye  may  so  live  together  in  this  life," 
the  minister  was  saying,  "that  in  the  world 
to  come  ye  may  have  life  everlasting.  Amen." 

It  was  over  in  an  incredibly  brief  space  of 
time.  When  they  came  down  the  aisle,  Allan 
had  the  satisfied  air  of  a  man  who  has  just 
emerged,  triumphantly,  through  his  own  skill, 
from  a  very  difficult  and  dangerous  ordeal. 
Eloise  was  radiant,  for  her  heart  was  singing 
within  her  a  splendid  strophe  of  joy. 

When  Barbara  and  Roger  went  to  meet 
them,  the  strange,  new  shyness  that  had  settled 
down  upon  them  both  effectually  hindered 
conversation.  Roger  began  an  awkward  lit 
tle  speech  of  congratulation,  which  immedi 
ately  became  inarticulate  and  ended  in  silent 
embarrassment. 

But  Allan  wrung  Roger's  hand  in  a  mighty 
grip  that  made  him  wince,  and  Eloise  smiled, 
for  she  saw  more  than  either  of  them  had  yet 


autumn  Xeaves  3I1 


guessed.     "You're   kids,"    she   said,  fondly;      ( 
"just  dear,  foolish   kids."     Impulsively,  she 
kissed  them  both,  then  they  all  went  out  into 
the  sunshine  again. 

The  minister's  eyes  followed  them  with  a 
certain  wistfulness,  for  he  was  young,  and, 
as  yet,  the  great  miracle  had  not  come  to  him. 
He  sighed  when  he  put  out  the  tapers  and 
closed  the  door  that  divided  him  from  the 
music  of  Autumn  and  one  great,  overwhelm 
ing  joy. 

On  the  way  home,  neither  Barbara  nor  Roger 
spoke.  They  had  nothing  to  say  and  the 
others  were  silent  because  they  had  so  much. 
They  left  the  two  at  Barbara's  gate,  then  Allan 
turned  the  horses  back  to  the  hill  road.  They 
were  to  have  two  glorious,  golden  hours  alone 
before  taking  the  afternoon  train. 

Barbara  and  Roger  watched  them  as  they 
went  slowly  up  the  tawny  road  that  trailed 
like  a  ribbon  over  the  pageantry  of  the  hill. 
When  they  came  to  the  crossroads,  where  one 
road  led  to  the  church  and  the  other  into  the 
boundless  world  beyond,  Eloise  leaned  far  out 
to  wave  a  fluttering  bit  of  white  in  farewell. 

"  And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old," 

quoted  Barbara,  softly. 


312 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


O'er  tbe 
Dills 


"  And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away, 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 
Through  all  the  world  she  followed  him," 

added  Roger. 

The  carriage  was  now  only  a  black  speck 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Presently  it  de 
scended  into  the  Autumn  sunset  and  vanished 
altogether. 

"  I  'm  glad  they  asked  us,"  said  Roger. 

"Wasn't  it  dear  of  them!"  cried  Barbara, 
with  her  face  aglow.  "Oh,  Roger,  if  I  ever 
have  a  wedding,  I  want  it  to  be  just 
like  that!" 


XXIII 

letters  to  Constance 

ROGER  was  in  the  library,  trying  to  choose,  *ai«>  in 
from  an  embarrassment  of  riches,  the 
ten  of  his  father's  books  which  he  was  to 
be  permitted  to  take  to  the  city  with  him. 
With  characteristic  thoughtf illness,  Eloise  had 
busied  herself  in  his  behalf  immediately  upon 
her  return  to  town.  She  had  found  a  good  op 
portunity  for  him,  and  the  letter  appointing 
the  time  for  a  personal  interview  was  even  then 
in  his  pocket. 

Neither  he  nor  his  mother  had  the  slightest 
doubt  as  to  the  result.  Miss  Mattie  was  certain 
that  any  lawyer  with  sense  enough  to  practise 
law  would  be  only  too  glad  to  have  Roger  in 
his  office.  She  scornfully  dismissed  the  griev 
ing  owner  of  Fido  from  her  consideration,  for 
it  was  obvious  that  anyone  with  even  passable 
mental  equipment  would  not  have  been  dis 
turbed  by  the  accidental  and  painless  removal 
of  a  bull  pup. 

Roger's  ambition  and  eagerness  made  him 


3M  fflowet  of  tbe  Duafc 


xost  in  very  sure  of  the  outcome  of  his  forthcoming 
venture.  All  he  asked  for  was  the  chance  to 
work,  and  Eloise  was  giving  him  that.  How 
good  she  had  been  and  how  much  she  had  done 
for  Barbara !  Roger's  heart  fairly  overflowed 
with  gratitude  and  he  registered  a  boyish  vow 
not  to  disappoint  those  who  believed  in  him. 

It  seemed  strange  to  think  of  Eloise  as 
"Mrs.  Conrad."  She  had  signed  her  brief 
note  to  Roger,  "Very  cordially,  Eloise  Wynne 
Conrad."  Down  in  the  corner  she  had  written 
"Mrs.  Allan  Conrad."  Roger  smiled  as  he 
noted  the  space  between  the  "Wynne"  and 
the  "Conrad"  in  her  signature — the  surest 
betrayal  of  a  bride. 

"If  I  should  marry,"  Roger  thought,  "my 
wife's  name  would  be  'Mrs.  Roger  Austin/  ' 
He  wrote  it  out  on  a  scrap  of  paper  to  see  how 
it  would  look.  It  was  certainly  very  attrac 
tive.  "And  if  it  were  Barbara,  for  instance, 
she  would  sign  her  letters  *  Barbara  North 
Austin.'  "  He  wrote  that  out,  too,  and,  in  the 
lamplight,  appreciatively  studied  the  effect 
from  many  different  angles.  It  was  really  a 
very  beautiful  name. 

He  lost  himself  in  reverie,  and  it  was  nearly 
an  hour  afterward  when  he  returned  to  the 
difficult  task  of  choosing  his  ten  books.  Shake 
speare,  of  course — fortunately  there  was  a  one- 
volume  edition  that  came  within  the  letter  of 
the  law  if  not  the  spirit  of  it.  To  this  he 


Xetters  to  Constance  3i5 


added  Browning.  As  it  happened,  there  was 
a  complete  one-volume  edition  of  this,  too. 
Emerson  came  next — the  Essays  in  two  vol 
umes.  That  made  four.  He  added  Vanity 
Fair,  David  Copperfield,  a  translation  of 
the  /Eneid,  and  his  beloved  Keats.  He  hesi 
tated  a  long  time  over  the  last  two,  but  finally 
took  down  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  and 
the  Essays  of  Elia,  neither  of  which  he  had 
read. 

Behind  these  two  books,  which  had  stood 
side  by  side,  there  was  a  small,  thin  book  that 
had  either  fallen  down  or  been  hidden  there. 
Roger  took  it  out  and  carefully  wiped  off  the 
dust.  It  was  a  blank  book  in  which  his  father 
had  written  on  all  but  the  last  few  pages.  He 
took  it  over  to  the  table,  drew  the  lamp  closer, 
and  sat  down. 

The  gay  cover  had  softened  with  the  years, 
the  pages  were  yellow,  and  some  of  them 
were  blurred  by  blistering  spots.  The  ink  had 
faded,  but  the  writing  was  still  legible.  At 
the  top  of  the  first  page  was  the  date,  "  Eve 
ning,  June  the  seventh" 

"  I  have  lived  long,"  was  written  on  the  next 
line  below,  "but  a  thousand  years  of  living 
have  been  centred  remorselessly  into  to-day. 
I  cannot  go  over,  though  in  this  house  and 
in  the  one  across  the  road  it  will  seem  very 
strange.  I  knew  the  clouds  of  darkness  must 
eternally  hide  us  each  from  the  other,  that  we 


H  little 

©tt>  Sooft 


3i6 


flower  ot  tbe  Busfe 


o   Otbcr 
TJQav 


must  see  each  other  no  more  save  at  a  great 
distance,  but  the  thunder  and  the  riving 
lightning  have  put  heaven  between  us  as  well 
as  earth. 

"  I  cannot  eat,  for  food  is  dust  and  ashes  in 
my  mouth.  I  cannot  drink  enough  water  to 
moisten  my  dry,  parched  throat.  I  cannot 
answer  when  anyone  speaks  to  me,  for  I  do  not 
hear  what  is  said.  It  does  not  seem  that  I 
shall  ever  sleep  again.  Yet  God,  pitiless  and 
unforgiving,  lets  me  live  on." 

The  remainder  of  the  page  was  blank.  The 
next  entry  was  dated:  "June  tenth.  Night." 

"  I  had  to  go.  There  was  no  other  way. 
I  had  to  sit  and  listen.  I  saw  the  blind  man 
im  the  room  beyond,  sitting  beside  the  dark 
woman  with  the  hard  face.  She  had  the 
little  lame  baby  in  her  arms — the  baby  who  is 
a  year  or  so  younger  than  my  own  son.  I 
smelled  the  tuberoses  and  the  great  clusters 
of  white  lilacs.  And  I  saw  her,  dead,  with 
her  golden  braids  on  either  side  of  her,  smiling, 
in  her  white  casket.  When  no  one  was  looking, 
I  touched  her  hand.  I  called  softly,  'Con 
stance.'  She  did  not  answer,  so  I  knew  she 
was  dead. 

"I  had  to  go  to  the  churchyard,  with  the 
others.  I  was  compelled  to  look  at  the  grave 
and  to  see  the  white  casket  lowered  in.  I  heard 
that  awful  fall  of  earth  upon  her  and  a  voice 
saying  those  terrible  words,  'Dust  to  dust, 


Zetters  to  Constance 


317 


earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes/  The  blind  man 
sobbed  aloud  when  the  earth  fell.  The  dark 
woman  with  the  hard  face  did  not  seem  to  care. 
I  could  have  strangled  her,  but  I  had  to  keep 
my  hands  still. 

"They  said  that  she  had  not  been  sleeping 
and  that  she  took  too  much  laudanum  by  mis 
take.  It  was  not  a  mistake,  for  she  was  not 
of  that  sort.  She  did  it  purposely.  She  did 
it  because  of  that  one  mad  hour  of  full  con 
fession.  I  have  killed  her.  After  three  years 
of  self-control,  it  failed  me,  and  I  went  mad. 
It  was  my  fault,  for  if  I  had  not  failed,  she 
would  not  have  gone  mad,  too.  I  have  killed 
her." 

"June  fifteenth.    Midnight. 

"  I  am  calmer  now.  I  can  think  more 
clearly.  I  have  been  alone  in  the  woods  all  day 
and  every  day  since — .  I  have  been  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking,  and  going  over  everything. 
She  left  no  word  for  me;  she  was  so  sure  I 
would  understand.  I  do  not  understand  yet, 
but  I  shall. 

"There  was  no  wrong  between  us,  there 
never  would  have  been.  We  were  divided  by 
the  whole  earth,  denied  by  all  the  leagues  of 
sundering  sea.  Now  we  are  estranged  by  all 
the  angels  of  heaven  and  all  the  hosts  of  hell. 

"  My  arms  ache  for  her — my  lips  hunger  for 
hers.  In  that  mysterious  darkness,  does  she 
want  me,  too  ?  Did  her  heart  cry  out  for  me 


fflowet  of  tbe  Busfc 


<$nc  tour 


as  mine  for  her,  until  the  blood  of  the  poppies 
mingled  with  hers  and  brought  the  white  sleep? 

"It  would  have  been  something  to  know 
that  we  breathed  the  same  air,  trod  the  same 
highways,  listened  together  to  the  thrush  and 
robin;  and  all  the  winged  wayfarers  of  forest 
and  field.  It  would  have  been  comfort  to 
know  the  same  sun  shone  on  us  both,  that  the 
same  moon  lighted  the  midnight  silences  with 
misty  silver,  that  the  same  stars  burned  taper- 
lights  in  the  vaulted  darkness  for  her  and  for 
me. 

"  But  I  have  not  even  that.  I  have  nothing, 
though  I  have  done  no  wrong  beyond  holding 
her  in  my  arms  for  one  little  hour.  Out  of  all 
the  time  that  was  before  our  beginning,  out  of 
all  the  time  that  shall  be  after  our  ending,  and 
in  all  the  unpitying  years  of  our  mortal  life, 
we  have  had  one  hour." 

"June  nineteenth. 

"  I  have  been  to  her  grave.  I  have  tried  to 
realise  that  the  little  mound  of  earth  upon  the 
distant  hill,  over  which  the  sun  and  stars  sweep 
endlessly,  still  shelters  her;  that,  in  some  way, 
she  is  there.  But  I  cannot. 

"The  mystery  agonises  me,  for  I  have  never 
had  the  belief  that  comforts  so  many.  Why  is 
one  belief  any  better  than  another  when  we 
come  face  to  face  with  the  grey,  impenetrable 
veil  that  never  parts  save  for  a  passage  ?  Freed 
from  the  bonds  of  earth,  does  she  still  live, 


Xetters  to  Constance 


319 


somewhere,  in  perfect  peace  with  no  thought 
of  me  ?  Sentient,  but  invisible,  is  she  here 
beside  me  now  ?  Or  is  she  asleep,  dream- 
lessly,  abiding  in  the  earth  until  some  arch 
angel  shall  sound  the  trumpet  bidding  all  the 
myriad  dead  arise?  Oh,  God,  God  !  Only 
tell  me  where  she  is,  that  I  may  go,  too!" 

"June  twenty-first. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  path  she  took  is  open  to 
me  also.  I  have  thought  of  it  many  times. 
I  am  not  afraid  to  follow  where  she  has  led, 
even  into  the  depths  of  hell.  I  have  had  for 
several  days  a  vial  of  the  crushed  poppies, 
and  the  bitter  odour,  even  now,  fills  my  room. 
Only  one  thought  stays  my  hand — my  little 
son. 

"Should  I  follow,  he  must  inevitably  come 
to  believe  that  his  father  was  a  coward — that 
he  was  afraid  of  life,  which  is  the  most  craven 
fear  of  all.  He  will  see  that  I  have  given  to 
him  something  that  I  could  not  bear  myself, 
and  will  despise  me,  as  people  despise  a  man 
who  shirks  his  burden  and  shifts  it  to  the 
shoulders  of  one  weaker  than  he. 

"When  temptation  assails  him,  he  will 
remember  that  his  father  yielded.  When  life 
looms  dark  before  him  and  among  the  fearful 
shadows  there  is  no  hint  of  light,  he  will 
recall  that  his  father  was  too  much  of  a  coward 
to  go  into  those  same  shadows,  carrying  his 
own  light. 


be  IbanD 
State! 


320 


jFlower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


"And  if  his  heart  is  ever  filled  with  an  awful 
agony  that  requires  all  his  strength  to  meet  it, 
he  will  remember  that  his  father  failed.  I 
could  not  rest  in  my  grave  if  my  son,  living, 
should  despise  me,  even  though  my  narrow 
house  was  in  the  same  darkness  that  hides 
Her." 

"July  tenth.    Dawn. 

"This,  then,  is  my  punishment.  Because 
for  one  hour  my  self-control  deserted  me,  when 
my  man's  blood  had  been  crying  out  for  three 
years  for  the  touch  of  her — because  for  one 
little  hour  my  hungry  arms  held  her  close  to 
my  aching  heart,  there  is  no  peace.  Nowhere 
in  earth  nor  in  heaven  nor  in  hell  is  there  one 
moment's  forgetfulness.  Nowhere  in  all  God's 
illimitable  universe  is  there  pardon  and  sur 
cease  of  pain. 

"The  blind  man  comes  to  me  and  talks  of 
her.  He  asks  me  piteously,  'Why?'  He  calls 
me  his  friend.  He  says  that  she  often  spoke  of 
me;  that  they  were  glad  to  have  me  in  their 
house.  He  asks  me  if  she  ever  said  one  word 
that  would  give  a  reason.  Was  she  unhappy  ? 
Was  it  because  he  was  blind  and  the  little 
yellow-haired  baby  with  her  mother's  blue  eyes 
was  born  lame  ?  I  can  only  say  'No/  and  beg 
him  not  to  talk  of  it — not  even  to  think  of  it." 

"  Juty  twentieth.     Night. 

"  The  beauty  of  the  world  at  midsummer  only 
makes  my  loneliness  more  keen.  The  butter- 


^Letters  to  Constance 


321 


flies  flit  through  the  meadows  like  wandering 
souls  of  last  year's  flowers  that  died  and  were 
buried  by  the  snow.  The  harvest  moon,  red- 
gold  and  wonderful,  will  rise  slowly  up  out  of 
the  sea.  The  path  of  light  will  lie  on  the  still 
waters  and  widen  into  a  vast  arc  at  the  line  of 
the  shore.  Cobwebs  will  come  among  the 
stubble  when  the  harvest  is  gathered  in  and 
on  them  will  lie  dewdrops  that  the  moon 
will  make  into  pearls. 

"The  gorgeous  colouring  of  Autumn  will 
transfigure  the  hills  with  glory,  and  fill  the 
far  silences  with  misty  amethyst  and  gold. 
The  year-long  sleep  will  come  with  the  first 
snow,  and  the  stars  burn  blue  and  cold  in  the 
frosty  night.  April  bugles  will  wake  the  vio 
lets  and  anenomes,  the  dead  leaves  of  Au 
tumn  will  be  starred  with  springtime  bloom, 
May  will  dance  through  the  world  with  lilacs 
and  apple  blossoms,  and  I  shall  be  alone. 

"  I  can  go  to  her  grave  again  and  see  the 
violets  all  around  it,  their  exquisite  odour  made 
of  her  dust.  I  can  carry  to  her  the  first  roses 
of  June,  as  I  used  to  do,  but  she  cannot  take 
them  in  her  still  hands.  I  can  only  lay  them 
on  that  impassable  mound,  and  let  the  warm 
rains,  as  soft  as  woman's  tears,  drip  down  and 
down  and  down  until  the  fragrance  and  my 
love  come  to  her  in  the  mist. 

"But  will  she  care?  Is  that  last  sleep  so 
deep  that  the  quiet  heart  is  never  stirred  by 


Ciecle  of 

the 
Seasons 


322 


fflower  of  tbe  Busfe 


S>eatb  of 
passion 


love?  When  my  whole  soul  goes  out  to  her  in 
an  agony  of  love  and  pain,  is  it  possible  that 
there  is  no  answer?  If  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  it  cannot  be!" 

"October  fijtb.    Night. 

"It  is  said  that  Time  heals  everything.  I 
have  been  waiting  to  see  if  it  were  so.  Day  by 
day  my  loss  is  greater;  day  by  day  my  grief 
becomes  more  difficult  to  bear.  I  read  all  the 
time,  or  pretend  to.  I  sit  for  hours  with  the 
open  book  before  me  and  never  see  a  line  that 
is  printed  there.  Oh,  Love,  if  I  could  dream 
to-night,  in  the  earth  with  you!" 

"  October  seventh. 

"Just  four  months  ago  to-day!  I  was 
numb,  then,  with  the  shock  and  horror.  I 
could  not  feel  as  I  do  now.  When  the  tide  of 
my  heart  came  in,  with  agony  in  every  pulse- 
beat,  it  rose  steadily  to  the  full,  without  pause, 
without  rest.  I  think  it  has  reached  its  flood 
now,  for  I  cannot  endure  more.  Will  there 
ever  be  recession?" 

"  November  tenth. 

"  I  am  coming,  gradually,  to  have  some  sort 
of  faith.  I  do  not  know  why,  for  I  have  never 
had  it  before.  I  can  see  that  all  things  made 
of  earth  must  perish  as  the  leaves.  Passion 
dies  because  it  is  of  the  earth,  but  does  not 
love  live  ? 

"  If  only  the  finer  things  of  the  spirit  could 
be  bequeathed,  like  material  possessions!  All 


Xetters  to  Constance 


323 


I  have  to  leave  my  son  is  a  very  small  income 
and  a  few  books.  I  cannot  give  him  endu 
rance,  self-control,  or  the  power  to  withstand 
temptation.  I  cannot  give  him  joy.  If  I 
could,  I  should  leave  him  one  priceless  gift — 
my  love  for  Constance,  to  which,  for  one 
hour,  hers  answered  fully — I  should  give  him 
that  love  with  no  barrier  to  divide  it  from  its 
desire. 

"  I  wonder  if  Constance  would  have  left  hers 
to  her  little  yellow-haired  girl?  I  wonder  if 
sometimes  the  joys  of  the  fathers  are  not 
visited  upon  their  children  as  well  as  their 
sins?" 

"  November  nineteenth.    Night. 

"  I  have  come  to  believe  that  love  never  dies 
for  God  is  love,  and  He  is  immortal.  My  love 
for  Constance  has  not  died  and  cannot.  Why 
should  hers  have  died  ?  It  does  not  seem  that 
it  has,  since  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  have 
found  surcease. 

"Constance  is  dead,  but  she  has  left  her  love 
to  sustain  and  strengthen  me.  It  streams 
out  from  the  quiet  hillside  to-night  as  never 
before,  and  gives  me  the  peace  of  a  benediction. 
I  understand,  now,  the  blinding  pain  of  the 
last  five  months.  The  immortal  spirit  of  love, 
which  can  neither  die  nor  grow  old,  was  ex 
tricating  itself  from  the  earth  that  clung  to  it. 

"December  tbird. 

"At  last  I  have  come  to  perfect  peace.     I 


BOift 


324  ffiower  of  tbe  E)usfe 


s>aie  bp  no  longer  hunger  so  terribly  for  the  touch  of 
her,  for  my  aching  arms  to  clasp  her  close,  for 
her  lips  to  quiver  beneath  mine.  The  tide 
has  ebbed — there  is  no  more  pain. 

"I  have  come,  strangely,  into  kinship  with 
the  universe.  I  have  a  feeling  to-night  of 
brotherhood.  I  can  see  that  death  is  no  division 
when  a  heart  is  deep  enough  to  hold  a  grave. 
The  Grey  Angel  cannot  separate  her  from  me, 
though  she  took  the  white  poppies  from  his 
hands,  and  gave  none  to  me. 

"December  eighteenth. 

"Constance,  Beloved,  I  feel  you  near  to 
night.  The  wild  snows  of  Winter  have  blown 
across  your  grave,  but  your  love  is  warm  and 
sweet  around  my  heart.  The  sorrow  is  all 
gone  and  in  its  place  has  come  a  peace  as  deep 
and  calm  as  the  sea.  I  can  wait,  day  by  day, 
until  the  Grey  Angel  summons  me  to  join 
you;  until  the  poppies  that  stilled  your  heart 
beats,  shall,  in  another  way,  quiet  mine,  too. 

"  I  can  have  faith.  I  can  believe  that 
somewhere  beyond  the  star-filled  spaces,  when 
this  arc  of  mortal  life  merges  into  the  perfect 
circle  of  eternity,  there  will  be  no  barrier 
between  you  and  me,  because,  if  God  is  love, 
love  must  be  God,  and  He  has  no  limitations. 

"  I  can  take  up  my  burden  and  go  on  until 
the  road  divides,  and  the  Grey  Angel  leads  me 
down  your  path.  I  can  be  kind.  I  can  try, 
each  day,  to  put  joy  into  the  world  that  so 


OLetters  to  Constance 


sorely  needs  it,  and  to  take  nothing  away 
from  whatever  it  holds  of  happiness  now.  I 
can  be  strong  because  I  have  known  you,  I 
can  have  courage  because  you  were  brave, 
I  can  be  true  because  you  were  true,  I  can  be 
tender  because  I  love  you. 

"At  last  I  understand.  It  is  passion  that 
cries  out  for  continual  assurance,  for  fresh 
sacrifices,  for  new  proof.  Love  needs  nothing 
but  itself;  it  asks  for  nothing  but  to  give  itself; 
it  denies  nothing,  neither  barriers  nor  the 
grave.  Love  can  wait  until  life  comes  to  its 
end,  and  trust  to  eternity,  because  it  is  of 
God." 

Roger  put  the  little  book  down  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  He  had  come  upon  a  man's  heart 
laid  bare  and  was  thrilled  to  the  depths  by  the 
revelation.  He  was  as  one  who  stands  in  a 
holy  place,  with  uncovered  head,  in  the  hush 
.that  follows  prayer. 

In  the  midst  of  his  tenderness  for  his  dead 
father  welled  up  a  passionate  loyalty  toward 
the  woman  who  slept  in  the  room  adjoining 
the  library,  whose  soul  had  "never  been 
welded."  She  had  known  life  no  more  than  a 
prattling  brook  in  a  meadow  may  know  the  sea. 
Bound  in  shallows,  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
unutterable  vastness  in  which  deep  an 
swered  unto  deep;  tide  and  tempest  and  blue 
surges  were  fraught  with  no  meaning  for  her. 


B  /IDan' 

Ifoaut 


326 


JHower  of  tbe  2>usfe 


©ut  into 
tbe  -flight 


The  clock  struck  twelve  and  Roger  still  sat 
there,  with  his  head  resting  upon  his  hand. 
He  read  once  more  his  father's  wish  to  be 
queath  to  him  his  love,  "with  no  barrier  to 
divide  it  from  its  desire." 

Hedged  in  by  earth  and  hopelessly  put  as- 
sunder,  could  it  at  last  come  to  fulfilment 
through  daughter  and  son?  At  the  thought 
his  heart  swelled  with  a  pure  passion  all  its 
own — the  eager  pulse-beats  owed  nothing  to 
the  dead. 

He  found  a  sheet  of  paper  and  reverently 
wrapped  up  the  little  brown  book.  An  hour 
later,  he  slipped  under  the  string  a  letter  of 
his  own,  sealed  and  addressed,  and  quietly, 
though  afraid  that  the  beating  of  his  heart 
sounded  in  the  stillness,  went  out  into  the 
night. 


XXIV 

Belle  in  tbe  Gower 

HPHE  sea  was  very  blue  behind  the  Tower 
1  of  Cologne,  though  it  was  not  yet  dawn. 
The  velvet  darkness,  in  that  enchanted  land, 
seemed  to  have  a  magical  quality — it  veiled 
but  did  not  hide.  Barbara  went  up  the  glass 
steps,  made  of  cologne  bottles,  and  opened  the 
door. 

She  had  not  been  there  for  a  long  time,  but 
nothing  was  changed.  The  winding  stairway 
hung  with  tapestries  and  the  round  windows 
at  the  landings,  through  which  one  looked  to 
the  sea,  were  all  the  same. 

King  Arthur,  Sir  Lancelot  and  Guinevere 
were  all  in  the  Tower,  as  usual.  The  Lady 
of  Shalott  was  there,  with  Mr.  Pickwick,  Dora, 
and  Little  Nell.  All  the  dear  people  of  the 
books  moved  through  the  lovely  rooms,  sniffing 
at  cologne,  or  talking  and  laughing  with  each 
other,  just  as  they  pleased. 

The  red-haired  young  man  and  the  two  blue 
and  white  nurses  were  still  there,  but  they 


327 


Ube 
Uowct 


328 


jflower  of  tbe  2Dusfc 


Hn 

Unfiniebcb 


seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  going  out.  Doc 
tor  Conrad  and  Eloise  were  in  every  room  she 
went  into.  Eloise  was  all  in  white,  like  a  bride, 
and  the  Doctor  was  very,  very  happy. 

Ambrose  North  was  there,  no  longer  blind 
or  dead,  but  well  and  strong  and  able  to  see. 
He  took  Barbara  in  his  arms  when  she  went  in, 
kissed  her,  and  called  her  "Constance." 

A  sharp  pang  went  through  her  heart  be 
cause  he  did  not  know  her.  "  I  'm  Barbara, 
Daddy,"  she  cried  out;  "don't  you  know  me  ?" 
But  he  only  murmured,  "Constance,  my  Be 
loved,"  and  kissed  her  again — not  with  a  fa 
ther's  kiss,  but  with  a  yearning  tenderness  that 
seemed  very  strange.  She  finally  gave  up  try 
ing  to  make  him  understand  that  her  name 
was  Barbara — that  she  was  not  Constance  at 
all.  At  last  she  said,  "It  does  n't  matter  by 
what  name  you  call  me,  as  long  as  you  love 
me,"  and  went  on  upstairs. 

One  of  the  tapestries  that  hung  on  the  wall 
along  the  winding  stairway  was  new — at  least 
she  did  not  remember  having  seen  it  before. 
It  was  in  the  soft  rose  and  gold  and  brown  and 
blue  of  the  other  tapestries,  and  appeared  old, 
as  though  it  had  been  hanging  there  for  some 
time.  She  fingered  it  curiously.  It  felt  and 
looked  like  the  others,  but  it  must  be  new,  for 
it  was  not  quite  finished. 

In  the  picture,  a  man  in  white  vestments 
stood  at  an  altar  with  his  hands  outstretched 


Bells  in  tbe  ZTower  329 


in  blessing.  Before  him  knelt  a  girl  and  a  man.  \\n 
The  girl  was  in  white  and  the  taper-lights  at 
the  altar  shone  on  her  two  long  yellow  braids 
that  hung  down  over  her  white  gown,  so  that 
they  looked  like  burnished  gold.  The  face 
was  turned  away  so  that  she  could  not  see  who 
it  was,  but  the  man  who  knelt  beside  her  was 
looking  straight  at  her,  or  would  have  been, 
if  the  tapestry-maker  had  not  put  down  her 
needle  at  a  critical  point.  The  man's  face 
had  not  been  touched,  though  everything  else 
was  done.  Barbara  sighed.  She  hoped  that 
the  next  time  she  came  to  the  Tower  the 
tapestry  would  be  finished. 

She  went  into  the  violet  room,  for  a  little 
while,  and  sat  down  on  a  green  chair  with  a 
purple  cushion  in  it.  She  took  a  great  bunch 
of  violets  out  of  a  bowl  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  sweetness.  Then  she  went  to  the  mantel, 
where  the  bottles  were,  and  drenched  her 
handkerchief  with  violet  water.  She  had 
tried  all  the  different  kinds  of  cologne  that 
were  in  the  Tower,  but  she  liked  the  violet  water 
best,  and  nearly  always  went  into  the  violet 
room  for  a  little  while  on  her  way  upstairs. 

As  she  turned  to  go  out,  the  Boy  joined  her. 
He  was  a  young  man  now,  taller  than  Barbara, 
but  his  face,  as  always,  was  hidden  from  her 
as  by  a  mist.  His  voice  was  very  kind  and 
tender  as  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"How  do  you  do,  Barbara,  dear?"  he  asked. 


330 


fflower  of  tbc  SHisfc 


TOUnMng 
Stairs 


"You  have  not  been  in  the  Tower  for  a  long 
time." 

"I  have  been  ill,"  she  answered.  "See?" 
She  tried  to  show  him  her  crutches,  but  they 
were  not  there.  "I  used  to  have  crutches," 
she  explained. 

"Did  you?"  he  asked,  in  surprise.  "You 
never  had  them  in  the  Tower." 

"That's  so,"  she  answered.  "I  had  for 
gotten."  She  remembered  now  that  when  she 
went  into  the  Tower  she  had  always  left  her 
crutches  leaning  up  against  the  glass  steps. 

"  Let 's  go  upstairs,"  suggested  the  Boy, 
"and  ring  the  golden  bells  in  the  cupola." 

Barbara  wanted  to  go  very  much,  but  was 
afraid  to  try  it,  because  she  had  never  been 
able  to  reach  the  cupola. 

"If  you  get  tired,"  the  Boy  went  on,  as 
though  he  had  read  her  thought,  "I  '11  put 
my  arm  around  you  and  help  you  walk. 
"Come,  let's  go." 

They  went  out  of  the  violet  room  and  up  the 
winding  stairway.  Barbara  was  not  tired  at 
all,  but  she  let  him  put  his  arm  around  her, 
and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder  as 
they  climbed.  Some  way,  she  felt  that  this 
time  they  were  really  going  to  reach  the 
cupola. 

It  was  very  sweet  to  be  taken  care  of  in  this 
way  and  to  hear  the  Boy's  deep,  tender  voice 
telling  her  about  the  Lady  of  Shalott  and  all 


ZTbe  JBcIls  In  tbe  Uower 


331 


the  other  dear  people  who  lived  in  the  Tower. 
Sometimes  he  would  make  her  sit  down  on 
the  stairs  to  rest.  He  sat  beside  her  so  that 
he  might  keep  his  arm  around  her,  and  Barbara 
wished,  as  never  before,  that  she  might  see 
his  face. 

Finally,  they  came  to  the  last  landing. 
They  had  been  up  as  high  as  this  once  before, 
but  it  was  long  ago.  The  cupola  was  hid 
den  in  a  cloud  as  before,  but  it  seemed  to  be 
the  cloud  of  a  Summer  day,  and  not  a  dark 
mist.  They  went  into  the  cloud,  and  an  Angel 
with  a  Flaming  Sword  appeared  before  them 
and  stopped  them.  The  Angel  was  all  in 
white  and  very  tall  and  stately,  with  a  divinely 
tender  face — Barbara's  own  face,  exalted 
and  transfigured  into  beauty  beyond  all 
words. 

"Please,"  said  Barbara,  softly,  though  she 
was  not  at  all  afraid,  "may  we  go  up  into  the 
cupola  and  ring  the  golden  bells  ?  We  have 
tried  so  many  times." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  Barbara  saw  the 
Angel  looking  at  her  with  infinite  longing  and 
love.  All  at  once,  she  knew  that  the  Angel 
was  her  mother. 

"  Please,  Mother  dear,"  said  Barbara,  "  let 
us  go  in  and  ring  the  bells." 

The  Angel  smiled  and  stepped  aside,  pointing 
to  the  right  with  the  Flaming  Sword  that  made 
a  rainbow  in  the  cloud.  In  the  light  of  it, 


ttbe  Bnciel 
\vttb  tbc 


Sworfc 


33  2 


fflovver  of  tbe  IDusfe 


they  went  through  the  mist,  that  seemed  to  be 


"We  're  really  in  the  cupola,"  cried  the  Boy, 
in  delight.  "See,  here  are  the  bells.'*  He 
took  the  two  heavy  golden  chains  in  his  hands 
and  gave  one  to  Barbara. 

"Ring!"  she  cried  out.  "Oh,  ring  all  the 
bells  at  once  !  Now  !" 

They  pulled  the  two  chains  with  all  their 
strength,  and  from  far  above  them  rang 
out  the  most  wonderful  golden  chimes  that 
anyone  had  ever  dreamed  of  —  strong  and 
sweet  and  thrilling,  yet  curiously  soft  and 
low. 

With  the  first  sound,  the  mist  lifted  and  the 
Angel  with  the  Flaming  Sword  came  into  the 
cupola  and  stood  near  them,  smiling.  Far  out 
was  the  blue  sky  that  bent  down  to  meet  a 
bluer  sea,  the  sand  on  the  shore  was  as  white 
as  the  blown  snow,  and  the  sea-birds  that 
circled  around  the  cupola  in  the  crystalline, 
fragrant  air  were  singing.  The  melody  blended 
strangely  with  the  sound  of  the  surf  on  the 
shining  shore  below. 

The  Angel  with  the  Flaming  Sword  touched 
Barbara  gently  on  the  arm,  and  smiled.  Bar 
bara  looked  up,  first  at  the  Angel,  and  then  at 
the  Boy  who  stood  beside  her.  The  mist  that 
had  always  been  around  him  had  lifted,  too, 
and  she  saw  that  it  was  Roger,  whom  she  had 
known  all  her  life. 


TTbe  Bells  in  tbe  Uower  333 


Barbara  woke  with  a  start.  The  sound  of 
the  golden  bells  was  still  chiming  in  her  ears. 
"Roger,"  she  said,  dreamily,  "we  rang  them 
all  together,  did  n't  we?"  But  Roger  did  not 
answer,  for  she  was  in  her  own  little  room,  now, 
and  not  in  the  Tower  of  Cologne. 

She  slipped  out  of  bed  and  her  little  bare, 
pink  feet  pattered  over  to  the  window.  She 
pushed  the  curtains  back  and  looked  out. 
It  was  a  keen,  cool,  Autumn  morning,  and 
still  dark,  but  in  the  east  was  the  deep,  won 
derful  purple  that  presages  daybreak. 

Oh,  to  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  sea!  Bar 
bara's  heart  ached  with  longing.  She  had 
wanted  to  go  for  so  many  years  and  nobody 
had  ever  thought  of  taking  her.  Now,  though 
Roger  had  suggested  it  more  than  once,  she 
had  said,  each  time,  that  when  she  went  she 
wanted  to  go  alone. 

"  I  '11  try  it,"  she  thought.  If  I  get  tired, 
I  can  sit  down  and  rest,  and  if  I  think  it  is 
going  to  be  too  much  for  me,  I  can  come  back. 
It  can't  be  very  far — just  down  this  road." 

She  dressed  hurriedly,  putting  on  her  warm, 
white  wool  gown  and  her  little  low  soft  shoes. 
She  did  not  stop  to  brush  out  her  hair  and 
braid  it  again,  for  it  was  very  early  and  no  one 
would  see.  She  put  over  her  head  the  white 
lace  scarf  she  had  worn  to  the  wedding,  took 
her  white  knitted  shawl,  and  went  downstairs 
so  quietly  that  Aunt  Miriam  did  not  hear  her. 


334 


if  lower  of  tbe  Busfc 


an 


She  unbolted  the  door  noiselessly  and  went 
out>  closing  it  carefully  after  her.  On  the 
top  step  was  a  very  small  package,  tied  with 
string,  and  a  letter  addressed,  simply,  "To 
Barbara."  She  recognised  it  as  a  book  and  a 
note  from  Roger  —  he  had  done  such  things 
before.  She  did  not  want  to  go  back,  so  she 
tucked  it  under  her  arm  and  went  on. 

It  seemed  so  strange  to  be  going  out  of  her 
gate  alone  and  in  the  dark  !  Barbara  was 
thrilled  with  a  sense  of  adventure  and  romance 
which  was  quite  new  to  her.  This  journeying 
into  unknown  lands  in  pursuit  of  unknown 
waters  had  all  the  fascination  of  discovery. 

She  went  down  the  road  faster  than  she  had 
ever  walked  before.  She  was  not  at  all  tired 
and  was  eager  for  the  sea.  The  Autumn  dawn 
with  its  keen,  cool  air  stirred  her  senses  to  new 
and  abounding  life.  She  went  on  and  on  and 
on,  pausing  now  and  then  to  lean  against 
somebody's  fence,  or  to  rest  on  a  friendly 
boulder  when  it  appeared  along  the  way. 

Faint  suggestions  of  colour  appeared  in  the 
illimitable  distances  beyond.  Barbara  saw 
only  a  vast,  grey  expanse,  but  the  surf  mur 
mured  softly  on  the  shadowy  shore.  Crossing 
the  sand,  and  stumbling  as  she  went,  she 
stooped  and  dipped  her  hand  into  it,  then  put 
her  rosy  forefinger  into  her  mouth  to  see  if 
it  were  really  salt,  as  everyone  said.  She  sat 
down  in  the  soft,  cool  sand,  drew  her  white 


JBells  of  tbe  Uower 


335 


knitted  shawl  and  lace  scarf  more  closely 
about  her,  and  settled  herself  to  wait. 

The  deep  purple  softened  with  rose.  Tints 
of  gold  came  far  down  on  the  horizon  line. 
Barbara  drew  a  long  breath  of  wonder  and 
joy.  Out  in  the  vastness  dark  surges  sang  and 
crooned,  breaking  slowly  into  white  foam  as 
they  approached  the  shore.  Rose  and  purple 
melted  into  amethyst  and  azure,  and,  out 
beyond  the  breakers,  the  grey  sea  changed  to 
opal  and  pearl. 

Mist  rose  from  the  far  waters  and  the  long 
shafts  of  leaping  light  divided  it  by  rainbows 
as  it  lifted:  Prismatic  fires  burned  on  the 
boundless  curve  where  the  sky  met  the  sea. 
Wet-winged  gulls,  crying  hoarsely,  came  from 
the  night  that  still  lay  upon  the  islands  near 
shore,  and  circled  out  across  the  breakers  to 
meet  the  dawn. 

Spires  of  splendid  colour  flamed  to  the 
zenith,  the  whole  east  burned  with  crimson 
and  glowed  with  gold,  and  from  that  far,  mys 
tical  arc  of  heaven  and  earth,  a  javelin  of 
molten  light  leaped  to  the  farthest  hill.  The 
pearl  and  opal  changed  to  softest  green,  mel 
lowed  by  turquoise  and  gold,  the  slow  blue 
surges  chimed  softly  on  the  singing  shore,  and 
Barbara's  heart  beat  high  with  rapture,  for 
it  was  daybreak  in  earth  and  heaven  and 
morning  in  her  soul. 

She  sat  there  for  over  an  hour,  asking  for 


Sunrise  on 
tbe  Sea 


336 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusfc 


nothing  but  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  warm, 

in  tbe  _/  .  \ 

sweet  sun  that  made  the  air  as  clear  as  crystal 
and  touched  the  Autumn  hills  with  living  flame. 
She  drew  long  breaths  of  the  wind  that  swept, 
like  shafts  of  sunrise,  half-way  across  the 
world. 

At  last  she  turned  to  the  package  that  lay 
beside  her,  and  untied  the  string,  idly  wonder 
ing  what  book  Roger  had  sent.  How  strange 
that  the  Boy  in  the  Tower  should  be  Roger, 
and  yet,  was  it  so  strange,  after  all,  when  she 
had  known  him  all  her  life? 

Before  looking  at  the  book,  she  tore  open 
the  letter  and  read  it — with  wide,  wondering 
eyes  and  wild-beating  heart. 

"  Barbara,  my  darling,"  it  began.  "  I  found 
this  book  to-night  and  so  I  send  it  to  you,  for 
it  is  yours  as  much  as  mine. 

"  I  think  my  father's  wish  has  been  granted 
and  his  love  has  been  bequeathed  to  me.  I 
have  known  for  a  long  time  how  much  I  care 
for  you,  and  I  have  often  tried  to  tell  you,  but 
fear  has  kept  me  silent. 

"  It  has  been  so  sweet  to  live  near  you,  to 
read  to  you  when  you  were  sewing  or  while 
you  were  ill,  and  sweeter  than  all  else  besides 
to  help  you  walk,  and  to  ieel  that  you  leaned 
on  me,  depending  on  me  for  strength  and 
guidance. 

"  Sometimes  I  have  thought  you  cared,  too, 


JBells  in  tbe  Uower  337 


and  then  I  was  not  sure,  so  I  have  kept  the 
words  back,  fearing  to  lose  what  I  have.  But 
to-night,  after  having  read  his  letters,  I  feel 
that  I  must  throw  the  dice  for  eternal  winning 
or  eternal  loss.  You  can  never  know,  if  I 
should  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  telling  you, 
just  how  much  you  have  meant  to  me  in  a 
thousand  different  ways. 

"Looking  back,  I  see  that  you  have  given 
me  my  ideals,  since  the  time  we  made  mud 
pies  together  and  built  the  Tower  of  Cologne, 
for  which,  alas,  we  never  got  the  golden  bells. 
I  have  loved  you  always  and  it  has  not  changed 
since  the  beginning,  save  to  grow  deeper  and 
sweeter  with  every  day  that  passed. 

"As  much  as  I  have  of  courage,  or  tender 
ness,  or  truth,  or  honour,  I  owe  to  you,  who 
set  my  standard  high  for  me  at  the  beginning, 
and  oh,  my  dearest,  my  love  has  kept  me 
clean.  If  I  have  nothing  else  to  give  you,  I 
can  offer  you  a  clean  heart  and  clean  hands, 
for  there  is  nothing  in  my  life  that  can  make 
me  ashamed  to  look  straight  into  the  eyes  of 
the  woman  I  love. 

"Ever  since  we  went  to  that  wedding  the 
other  day,  I  have  been  wishing  it  were  our  own 
— that  you  and  I  might  stand  together  before 
God's  high  altar  in  that  little  church  with  the 
sun  streaming  in,  and  be  joined,  each  to  the 
other,  until  death  do  us  part. 

"Sweetheart,  can  you  trust  me?     Can  you 


338 


jflower  of  tbe  Busfc 


Jfirst 
fflusb  of 
tRapture 


believe  that  it  is  for  always  and  not  just  for  a 
little  while  ?  Has  your  mother  left  her  love 
to  you  as  my  father  left  me  his  ? 

"  Let  me  have  the  sweetness  of  your  leaning 
on  me  always,  let  me  take  care  of  you,  comfort 
you  when  you  are  tired,  laugh  with  you 
when  you  are  glad,  and  love  you  until  death 
and  even  after,  as  he  loved  her. 

"Tell  me  you  care,  Barbara,  even  if  it  is 
only  a  little.  Tell  me  you  care,  and  I  can  wait, 
a  long,  long  time. 

"ROGER." 

Barbara's  heart  sang  with  the  joy  of  the 
morning.  She  opened  the  little  worn  book, 
with  its  yellow,  tear-stained  pages,  and  read 
it  all,  up  to  the  very  last  line. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  aloud,  in  pity.     "Oh!  oh!" 

Fully  understanding,  she  put  it  aside,  closing 
the  faded  cover  reverently  on  its  love  and  pain. 
Then  she  turned  to  Roger's  letter,  and  read 
it  again. 

Dreaming  over  it,  in  the  first  flush  of  that 
mystical  rapture  which  makes  the  world  new 
for  those  to  whom  it  comes,  as  light  is  re 
created  with  every  dawn,  she  took  no  heed  of 
the  passing  hours.  She  did  not  know  that  it 
was  very  late,  nor  that  Aunt  Miriam,  much 
worried,  had  asked  Roger  to  go  in  search  of 
her.  She  knew  only  that  love  and  morning 
and  the  sea  were  all  hers. 


JSells  in  tbe  Uower 


339 


The  tide  was  coming  in.  Each  wave  broke 
a  little  higher  upon  the  thirsting  shore.  Far 
out  on  the  water  was  a  tiny  dark  object  that 
moved  slowly  shoreward  on  the  crests  of  the 
waves.  Barbara  stood  up,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  and  waited,  counting 
the  rhythmic  pulse-beats  that  brought  it 
nearer. 

She  could  not  make  out  what  it  was, 
for  it  advanced  and  then  receded,  or 
paused  in  a  circling  eddy  made  by  two 
retreating  waves.  At  last  a  high  wave 
brought  it  in  and  left  it,  stranded,  at  her 
feet. 

Barbara  laughed  aloud,  for,  broken  by  the 
wind  and  wave  and  worn  by  tide,  a  fragment  of 
one  of  her  crutches  had  come  back  to  her.  The 
bit  of  flannel  with  which  she  had  padded  the 
sharp  end,  so  that  the  sound  would  not  distress 
her  father,  still  clung  to  it.  She  wondered 
how  it  came  there,  never  guessing  that  it  was 
but  the  natural  result  of  Eloise's  attempt 
to  throw  it  as  far  as  Allan  had  thrown 
the  other,  the  day  he  took  them  away  from 
her. 

A  great  sob  of  thankfulness  almost  choked 
her.  Here  she  stood  firmly  on  her  own  two 
feet,  after  twenty-two  years  of  helplessness, 
reminded  of  it  only  by  a  fragment  of  a  crutch 
that  the  sea  had  given  back  as  it  gives  up  its 
dead.  She  had  outgrown  her  need  of  crutches 


340 


fflower  of  tbe  Dusfe 


Ube  Uriu 
lover 


as  the  tiny  creatures  of  the  sea  outgrow  their 
shells. 

"  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll  ! 
Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  !" 

The  beautiful  words  chanted  themselves  over 
and  over  in  her  consciousness.  The  past,  with 
all  its  pain  and  grieving,  fell  from  her  like  a 
garment.  She  was  one  with  the  sun  and  the 
morning;  uplifted  by  all  the  world's  joy. 

Her  blood  sang  within  her  and  it  seemed 
that  her  heart  had  wings.  All  of  life  lay  before 
her — that  life  which  is  made  sweet  by  love. 
She  felt  again  the  ecstasy  that  claimed  her  in 
the  Tower  of  Cologne,  when  she  and  the  Boy, 
after  a  lifetime  of  waiting,  had  rung  all  the 
golden  bells  at  once. 

And  the  Boy  was  Roger — always  had  been 
Roger — only  she  did  not  know.  Into  Bar 
bara's  heart  came  something  new  and  sweet 
that  she  had  never  known  before — the  deep 
sense  of  conviction  and  the  everlasting  peace 
which  the  True  Lover,  and  he  alone,  has  power 
to  bestow. 

It  was  part  of  the  wonder  of  the  morning 
that  when  she  turned,  startled  a  little  by  a 
muffled  footstep,  she  should  see  Roger  with 


TTbe  JSells  in  tbe  Uowec 


341 


his  hands  outstretched  in  pleading  and  all 
his  soul  in  his  eyes. 

Barbara's  face  took  on  the  unearthly  beauty 
of  dawn.  Her  blue  eyes  deepened  to  violet, 
her  sweet  lips  smiled.  She  was  radiant,  from 
her  feet  to  the  heavy  braids  that  hung 
over  her  shoulders  and  the  shimmering  halo  of 
soft  hair,  that  blew,  like  golden  mist,  about 
her  face. 

Roger  caught  her  mood  unerringly — it  was 
like  him  always  to  understand.  He  was  no 
longer  afraid,  and  the  trembling  of  his  boyish 
mouth  was  lost  in  a  smile.  She  was  more 
beautiful  than  the  morning  of  which  she 
seemed  a  veritable  part — and  she  was  his. 

"Flower  of  the  Dawn,"  he  cried,  his  voice 
ringing  with  love  and  triumph,  "do  you  care? 
Are  you  mine?" 

She  went  to  him,  smiling,  with  the  colour 
of  the  fiery  dawning  on  her  cheeks  and  lips. 
"  Yes,"  she  whispered.  "  Did  n't  you  know  ? " 

Then  the  sun  and  the  morning  and  the  world 
itself  vanished  all  at  once  beyond  his  ken,  for 
Barbara  had  put  her  soft  little  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  lifted  her  love-lit  face  to  his. 


Jflowcr  of 
tbe  Dawn 


THE   END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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